To Feel Something
by Rykea
Summary: Her life had been comfortable once and she'd despised it. But then the bombs fell, and comfort became a cold, distant dream. Out of time and options, Grey will do whatever it takes to reclaim what was stolen. She'll even join a faction that stands for everything she despises and everything that haunts her.
1. Dead End

**_-TO FEEL SOMETHING-_**

CHAPTER 1  
Dead End

" _In a hundred years, when I finally die, I only hope I go to Hell so I can kill you all over again, you piece of shit_."

Grey grimaced, fingers tightening around her glass.

She could still see the sneer painted across Kellogg's lips as she'd pressed the barrel of her pistol against his skull. The sneer had remained, even as half of his face painted the wall.

She felt her pulse quicken with the memory. Her ears still rang from the gunshot. Too close range. But fuck, how she'd relished in his expression. That split second before he'd died, when his bravado ruptured, replaced by a look of unfiltered hatred. Hatred that he'd finally lost—lost to the pre-war frozen dinner.

She raised the glass to her mouth, the foul taste of irradiated Bourbon and dirty ice pushing past her tongue. She slammed it back. She didn't need the alcohol, wasn't even sure if she wanted it. Booze never soothed her nerves. She didn't understand drinking to forget either. It was a temporary solution at best, one accompanied by too many adverse effects and too few rewards. That didn't dissuade the populous from the practice though. Humans were nothing if not persistent.

She'd said as much to Nate once. He'd only smiled in response, mouth slightly pouted, eyes all sex and promises. He'd thought she'd meant it as a compliment, an acknowledgement of his efforts, his persistence. She hadn't meant it that way though. That persistence? It was pathetic.

Yet there she was, licking her wounds in the Third Rail, brain sputtering, skin reeking of booze. All that she'd done—the dubious decisions she'd made, pain she'd endured—and still no closer to reclaiming Shaun. But that's what she'd been, wasn't it? _Persistent._

She fought against the urge to spit the whiskey back into her glass.

She hadn't won against Kellogg, she realized. Not really. She'd lost, too. Different battle, same war. Except now she knew who she was actually waging war against.

 _The Institute._

She'd heard the rumours, watched the citizens of the Commonwealth cower and slaughter their own out of fear. It was almost admirable, commanding that level of influence, provoking that much paranoia, and never once showing your actual face. In another life, she would have been intrigued by the Institute; a professional curiosity and appreciation. But now? It didn't matter. The Institute was just another obstacle in her path. She was used to those.

She'd only been out of Vault 111 for eight weeks, but she'd seen enough of the wasted Commonwealth to expect nothing less than a challenge. The world was different, the rules had changed, but there were still some universal truths. If practicing law had taught her anything, it was that there was no such thing as a perfect crime. No matter how carefully someone thought they'd covered their trail, something always remained. Kellogg could encrypt his messages and scrub his terminals, but Grey knew something would linger. What she didn't anticipate was unearthing it by rupturing Kellogg's skull.

She remembered Nick having said something as she plucked the cybernetics from the mess of grey matter, blood, and nodes. It was likely something sensible, something wise, yet she couldn't hear it. Her mind had been elsewhere, overtired and drowning in adrenaline and Med-X. Twisting, plotting, planning. The terminal had confirmed Kellogg's perimortem rant: the Institute had Shaun. "Delivered," he'd written, like the boy was some fucking package of catalogue odds and ends.

She'd grit her teeth and pocketed the cybernetics, feet rushing for the elevator, bits of brain tissue still dripping from her hands. She'd thrummed her fingers against her leg as the elevator rose, blood and tissue soaking through her Vault jumpsuit. She hadn't even been sure whose blood it was anymore, and she'd been hard pressed to care. As the lift opened, she'd rushed the security door, throwing all her weight behind it and tumbling through to the other side. Nick grabbed her arm before she teetered off the roof, pulling her back as the first spotlight turned her pale skin white.

Dogmeat had leaned back on his haunches, a growl seeming to emanate from the pit of his gut. Nick had pulled Grey close, hiding her blood-soaked frame in the coolness of his coat. She, in turn, had wrapped her hands around his metallic limb, hiding its glint. The night's sky had brimmed with Vertibirds. Searchlights had danced without target, adding to the sheer ferocity of the post-apocalyptic Hindenburg approaching Boston, its body blaring announcements of condescension and false peace. Not announcements: _threats_. The Brotherhood had arrived.

It was inconsequential, Grey'd decided—a distraction. Let the Brotherhood of Steel put on an air show and scare the local raider gangs. She and Nick had needed to speak to Piper in Diamond City.

Everything had been a blur from Fort Hagen to the Fens. She remembered the extra Diamond City guard, the weary looks cast at the sky. She remembered Piper and Nick arguing, something about Goodneighbor and memories and a Doctor Amari.

Grey's feet had led her to Goodneighbor on automatic, Dogmeat close at her heels. Nick had trailed behind, his pace faltering as the sound of Vertibirds reverberated along the remnants of Boston's cityscape. She didn't remember entering Scollay Square, let alone the Memory Den. She remembered holding the cybernetics in the palm of her hand, how the bits of loose tissue had begun to shrivel and dry. There had been discussions and pleas and a woman tinkering with Nick's head. And then Grey had found herself in that chair, in that motherfucker's goddamn _brain_ , Doctor Amari's voice guiding her along a nightmare she'd lived two too many times.

Kellogg's memories were still fresh. No amount of whiskey, no matter how irradiated, would cleanse his imprint from Grey's mind. It didn't change how she felt about him though. The experience hadn't humanized him because he'd always been human to her. Only humans killed for the thrill of it, for the utility, for the money. Even as she'd watched him put a bullet through her husband's head, she hadn't thought him a monster. Just a human, a pawn, a gun. One who killed the wrong parent. Because what Kellogg didn't know was that she was just like him. Well, perhaps he did figure that out in the end. Maybe that's what the sneer really was.

Grey had felt numb as she woke in Amari's lab. It was the only feeling she could tolerate. Amari had gently helped her from the chair, skin clammy and throat thick. Grey didn't think of the boy who was whisked away, didn't think of the years lost, the emotionally stunted machine that gripped his tiny, pale hand. No, she thought of the dossier Kellogg had thrown across his desk, the faceless name printed along the front. _Virgil._ The Institute's missing scientist and her final chance. But then she realized where he was and her world shattered.

Nick had sensed her frustration as she fled the Memory Den, feet pounding across Scollay Square and toward the Third Rail. His metallic hand wrapped around her wrist, breaking her stride. She'd stopped, tearing herself free.

"We'll figure this out, kid. You and me."

It had taken all of her strength not to scream at him. He deserved better than that. She'd known she was running on heightened emotions. Too much adrenaline, heart beating too fast, muscles quivering beneath her skin. She'd exhaled, running a hand back through greasy, uneven tresses.

"The Glowing Sea, Nick. The _Glowing fucking Sea_. That Institute bastard, Virgil, may as well be on Mars."

She'd heard settlers talk about the Glowing Sea after she'd left the Vault. Chalked it up to exaggeration-meets-urban-legend. But then she saw it when she and Piper chased down a dead-end lead in the southwest by Natick. Even standing along its edges, she'd felt the Sea's prickle of radiation against her skin, heard the faint click of her Pip-Boy's Geiger. And she had been miles away. She was sick for a week after that. She'd had Doctor Sun flush her system of radiation, twice, and still the nausea had lingered.

"We'll find you some Rad-Away, Rad-X, a hazmat suit—"

"Nick." Grey had said his name quietly, but that was all it took. "One: I don't have the caps for those provisions, and two—"

"Kid, don't you worry your pretty little head about that. We'll find a w—"

"No. Just…" She shook her head. "Even if we found those things, the Glowing Sea is massive. It would take weeks to canvas the area, maybe even months. And you've heard of the monstrosities that live there. We just… we wouldn't survive."

He had opened his mouth to protest but no sound came. He'd realized she was right. Instead he'd sighed, pulling a pack of Grey Tortoise from his coat pocket. Grey held out her lighter, igniting it as Nick leaned in, cigarette perched between his synthetic lips.

He blew a line of smoke past her shoulder, eyes distant, processors whirling. "We'll find a way, Grey. You, me, Piper—we'll find Virgil, locate the Institute, and we'll get your boy back. I promise."

His words were meant to comfort her, but instead they'd sat heavy on her chest. _Her boy_. She'd wished he hadn't said that. Shaun wasn't really her's. He was Nate's. He should have been Nate's. Not her's. Just Nate's.

Nick had offered to escort her back to Diamond City, but she'd declined. She needed some time, time to herself, time to think. He'd given her one last look, mechanical eyes speaking more loudly than words. Then he was gone.

Grey shifted her weight on the stool, leaning her elbows into the bar. The ice cubes clinked in her glass and she fought the temptation to dip her fingers into what remained of her drink, press the ice into the palm of her hand. A distraction. She craved distraction, an expulsion of energy. Pain, pleasure, anything.

She cast her gaze down the bar. A few withered drifters with more track marks than flesh sipped on Gwinnett Ale, their hands trembling as the chem withdrawal took hold. A young brunette skirted around them, attempting to flag down Whitechapel Charlie with hesitant movements and a whispery voice. She didn't quite belong, likely some settler's daughter having recently abandoned the family homestead to pursue some romanticized thrill-seeking life in the Commonwealth's most infamous town. Grey gave it a week before the girl either called it quits and hightailed it back to the tato field she crawled out of or was found in a back alley, naked and cold, with Psycho leaking out of an open vein.

Grey thought of Hancock then, feet padding around in the State House above, withered mouth huffing back on a hit of Jet. She didn't know the mayor all too well, but he fascinated her. She'd made the mistake of joining a heist to rob Hancock blind five weeks back. In her defence, she hadn't known it was Hancock she was robbing. She'd also needed the caps, but that wasn't an excuse too many victims cared to hear. She'd been three weeks out of the Vault, exhausted, hungry, and unable to afford enough bullets to keep her hide intact. Bobby'd offered to fix that; "the score of a lifetime," she'd said. But when ultimately faced with a lethal redhead packing a minigun, two trigger-happy goons, and the prospect of pissing off a mayor who formally introduced himself by gutting one of his own citizens? Yeah, fuck Bobby and fuck her heist. The fact Hancock then paid Grey for her wandering loyalties earned him a top spot on her list of intrigue. That, and the man's charisma was damn attractive, enough so that some part of her wondered what that half-goulified skin would feel like beneath her fingertips. Or her tongue.

She dropped her fingers into the glass, clutching an ice cube tight. The sting brought her back.

 _Focus_.

Shaun was her priority. The Institute was her target. And Virgil was her way in. But first she needed to track down the illusive fuck. She'd seen the army of synths Kellogg had amassed, the provisions he had gathered, even the modifications he'd made to his own body, but was that enough to tackle the Glowing Sea? Sherborn, Medfield, Millis—all gone now, reduce to irradiated ruin. Twenty square miles, maybe twenty-five, maybe thirty. Screw what she'd said to Nick—that wouldn't take a few months to search, it would take years.

Grey was reminded of a girl that had gone missing during her first year of law school. Some fifteen-year-old honour student from south of the Charles. White, blonde, pretty. The media lapped at the chance to report on something other than war and civil unrest, as did the local authorities. Within forty-eight hours, one could scarce find a milk bottle, tree, or lamppost that wasn't bearing the girl's face. By the seventy-second hour, everyone and their dog had been recruited into the search. Grey's criminal law professor took his students to the search site, citing some drivel about civic duty and appreciating "the role of the lesser man"—fucking pompous academics. It was there though that Grey learned the painful, tedious bullshit that was grid searching. They never did find the fifteen-year-old, but, by week two, they did find twelve-year-old Enrique Soto, his body having been dumped in some overgrowth south of Beantown Brewery. There had been no fanfare for Enrique; no posters, no news coverage, and definitely no milk bottle pleas. Even after his body was found, he remained an afterthought. He wasn't the outcome the people of Massachusetts craved. He was reality, cold and harsh, not an idealized distraction with blonde curls and a glowing face.

Grey knew the Glowing Sea was full of Enriques. Tens of thousands of bodies, all forgotten, all in her gridded area. Distractions. There had to be a way to narrow it down. Maybe some parts were more habitable than others? Maybe someone had mapped the Sea? Was there a cave system perhaps? A signal she could track?

She tapped her fingers against the bar, nails long and jagged, the underside caked with dried blood and only god knows what else.

Even if she narrowed down the area, it would still need to be grid searched. For that she'd need bodies, provisioned bodies, fighters. She could hire mercenaries, perhaps—she shot MacCready a look from across the Rail. A good merc was an easy 500 caps; a shit one was, at best, 150. Grey was lucky to have 970 caps to her name, so that plan was out. She'd also need a fortune's worth of anti-radiation meds, which were a good 80 caps per dose. She didn't need an accounting degree to do the math. _Maybe I should've robbed Hancock blind_ , she thought bitterly.

She dug her nails into the bar top, arm muscles tightening. She was so close— _so fucking close_ —she could taste it, but she had enough sense to recognize that charging in half cocked was only going to get her killed. She had a better sense of self-preservation than that. It didn't matter how exhausted she was or the level of frustration brimming within her—logic always prevailed. If only Nate had used his fucking brain when Kellogg put that gun in his face, then maybe—

She tightened her jaw, pushing away the thought. No "what if's", no "maybe's". Her husband was dead and she was alive. Nothing would change that, and torturing herself over it was more than pointless: it was counterproductive.

"—they're a goddamn army is what they are."

Grey's ears piqued.

A ghoul gave a short laugh. "Bullshit. Maybe they were fifty years ago—hell, maybe even twenty—but they're reclusive scavengers at best nowadays. Scary as fuck to stare down, but not the hardasses they once were. NCR saw to that several years back. NCR started seeing to a lot granted, hence why I decided to drift my ass back east."

The man seated across from the ghoul shook his head. "You haven't been to the Capital Wasteland. My brother and his girls, they live there now. I get a letter every so often when a caravan feels ambitious. You have to understand, D.C. was a shithole up to twenty-five years ago, then the Brotherhood marches in, sets up shop in some dilapidated pentagon-shaped ruin—"

Grey furrowed her brow. _The Pentagon?_

"—wages a war against these Enclave asshats, acquires all their tech, starts distributing free purified water—that's right: goddamn _purified_ water—to any waster brave enough to raise their hand up from their hovel, and they even have the super mutants near culled." He stopped, gulping down something dark and brown and on even blacker ice. "So yeah, they're a goddamn army. Hundreds of soldiers, maybe even thousands by now. All power armour clad, all armed to the teeth. A merc's wet dream, let me tell you." He scoffed. "Good fucking luck getting in with that lot though. Pretty sure even a letter from Atom wouldn't get you through those irradiated gates. Metaphorically speaking, of course, or literally, or—whatever, you know what I mean."

The men started arguing about the nuances of language then— _What is a metaphor, Ralph? That's the thing with 'as', right? No, you fucking moron._ —and Grey decided to stop eavesdropping before her IQ began to dip.

The Brotherhood of Steel hadn't seemed all too impressive when she'd stumbled into the slaughter that was the Cambridge Police Station six weeks back. She and Dogmeat had climbed onto the barricade, her feet tripping in the legs of some fresh corpse that wore fatigues. She'd picked off a few of the ferals with her 10mm, Dogmeat tackling the smaller ones to the ground, allowing for the power-armoured brute to turn them to dust. She hadn't known what to make of Paladin Danse at first, his face classically handsome and his demeanour catching her completely off guard. He was boundaried, old school, authoritative. He reminded her of the NCOs she'd encountered whilst working for JAG Corps, now that she thought about it. He was practically pre-war, and whilst that should have comforted her, it took everything in her not to turn and run.

She'd evaded most of his questions with little effort; answering questions with questions, appealing to a possible preference for reason. She still didn't know why she'd elected to help them. The Paladin offered no overt reward, and there seemed no benefit in ingratiating herself with a ragtag group of army-wannabes holed up in a ghoul-infested quarter. But she did, even after that Rhys asshole started running his mouth. Hell, she'd probably stuck around to spite him.

She'd snuck a look at their terminal entries whilst the Haylen woman played nurse, saw that they were on some reconnaissance mission, tracking some weird signals, and down more than half of their men after only a few weeks. She knew how harsh the Commonwealth was, had nearly lost her life to it five times in the past forty-eight hours, but their failure-to-success ratio had even Grey looking for black cats, broken mirrors, and misplaced ladders.

 _What are you getting yourself into?_ she'd asked herself as Paladin Danse briefed her on his plan or "mission" as he'd fancied calling it. She'd bit the inside of her mouth to stop herself from laughing. He'd surprised her though; his words curt yet informative, movements near textbook, and his marksmanship rivalled that of her husband's. She was rubbish with laser weapons, always had been. Even when Nate had positioned her body and aim just so, she'd still miss the target by a mile. But Danse, he disposed of both synths and turrets before Grey even registered their presence. He didn't handle her with kid gloves either, nor did he treat her as a subordinate or grunt. He was even, measured, methodical, even with synths around every corner, their creepy metallic frames and bulging cybernetic eyes keeping Grey's heart rate at a good 160 bpm for a solid two hours. Her mortality had struck her as she'd felt the tingle of a shock baton dance across her skin. She'd thought she was done for, clearly ill-equipped with a Vault suit, combat boots, leather jacket, and a flannel shirt wrapped around her waist. One baton strike, one laser shot, and she was dead. The Paladin had shielded her though, having realized her circumstances long before she had, taking the brunt of each attack, knowing she'd fire from behind his cover instead of hightailing it for the nearest settlement. But fuck, had it been tempting.

As they'd left ArkJet, Grey couldn't fight the grin pulling at her face. She'd fingered and tossed the long-range transmitter like a ball until the Paladin snatched it mid-air. From the look on his face, she'd expected him to reprimand her for nearly cooking him alive in his power armour several moments earlier, but no, instead he wanted to critique their combat performance. Typical. Nate had taken her camping once, but instead of fucking like dogs in heat, he'd decided to evaluate her survival skills, treating her like some slobbering imbecile who couldn't figure out that fire was hot.

Grey had smiled at Paladin Danse, the look more seductive than intended, the adrenaline and her hormones clearly playing a little too nice. "I thought we worked well as a team."

He'd glowered at her before reconsidering her words. "Agreed."

He'd offered her his laser rifle as reward, and Grey could only hope she didn't accidentally shoot herself with it before she could get it to the nearest trader and exchanged for a fistful of caps. But then the Paladin kept talking, about her skill, some drivel about wandering without purpose, needing to make her mark. The recruitment speech, modified for a world of flea-ridden wasters and settlers with more tatos than brains.

Grey'd sighed, running a hand back through her hair. Most of the time she'd snort a "no" if she bothered to even reply at all before walking away from an offer she didn't want. But he'd earned some of her respect. Man was a damned good fighter, and he'd treated her well even if, in his eyes, she was no better than any other mindless wastelander. She'd had an infant to reclaim though, and a city to find in the ruins of Fenway Park. This Brotherhood, whatever they were, couldn't help her. They could barely help themselves. Or so she'd decided.

She'd thought she'd seen something flicker behind the Paladin's hazel eyes with her refusal, but his face quickly hardened, head nodding in acknowledgement. "If you change your mind, you know where we are." And that was it, or so she'd thought.

"You keep tapping your fingernails like that and Whitechapel Charlie may start to think you're hitting on him in morse code."

Grey ceased the motion as MacCready approached, the slight man taking the stool next to her's. She cocked her head before giving him a sly smile.

"Robert Joseph MacCready, just the man I'm looking for."

She watched the wheels in his head turn, watched as his expression turned to curiosity to apprehension to alarm. "No, no way, Grey. Whatever it is you're cooking, it's way above my pay grade and I will not be pulled in—"

"I want you to tell me everything you know about the Brotherhood of Steel." She threw a hundred caps onto the bar. "And don't leave anything out."


	2. Too Easy

**CHAPTER 2**  
Too Easy

Grey rolled her shoulders for the umpteenth time, pulling her gaze back from her rifle's scope. Dark was settling around her, the whites of Dogmeat's eyes barely visible even as he laid by her legs. Grey had perched herself on the second floor of what had once been an appliance shop, body hidden by a crumbling wall that overlooked the Cambridge Police Station. She'd been there since midday, watching the Brotherhood soldiers' movements, the patterns in their watch, the length of their shifts. They didn't operate like clockwork, but they were predictable enough. Always a minimum of two on guard, at least one in power armour.

A man in red and grey fatigues spent the last three hours behind a welding mask, fortifying the barriers in bits and drabs. He seemed the chattiest of the lot, commenting on everything from the weather to the number of laser scorches decorating the station steps. Grey imagined some of the damage was from the ghoul attack several weeks back, but the damage was too extensive to be isolated to that one incident. The barriers were also riddled with .38 rounds, "the raider special" as Piper once called them. A local gang probably saw an opportunity to reclaim College Square after Grey and Danse had disposed of the ferals. Probably saw three soldiers holed up in a dilapidated building as easy pickings. Grey smirked. Poor raiders.

One of the soldiers laughed as the welder deliberated the scale or number of attacks.

"No one's going to move on this place now that the Prydwen is in town."

That was the third time Grey had heard that word. Was that a person, a weapon, a rank? She knew the word was Celtic in origin. Irish, Welsh, Scottish—something like that. She couldn't place it though. Familiar, but not familiar enough. Grey'd never been one for languages or literature. She enjoyed history, to an extent, but had always preferred social sciences—sociology, psychology, political science. Anything that could distill people into a series of patterns and generalizations. Anything that could help her gain an upper hand.

Grey's stomach made an audible growl, loud enough that one of the soldiers' heads snapped in her direction. Grey pressed her back to the wall and brought her rifle to her chest a second before a headlight tore through the cracks in the brickwork. She could feel Dogmeat's body tense alongside her. Her breath hitched. The headlight swung across the dilapidated wall, shadows dancing along the inside of the shop, air thick with cobwebs and dust. The subtlest of growls began to emanate from Dogmeat, more vibration than sound. Grey's hand shot out instinctively, cupping his snout and giving a squeeze. The growl ceased.

"What's wrong, Daniels?"

Another sweep of the light. A pause.

"I'm not sure. Thought I heard… something."

Grey felt her stomach begin to clench again, and she hugged her rifle tighter, desperate for it to absorb some of the sound.

"Want us to do a sweep?"

 _Fuck._

"Perhaps."

Another scan of the light.

 _Fuck fuck fuck_. There would be no smooth talking herself out of this one. They'd shoot her the moment they got a glimpse of her. She was dirty, tattered, but armed. Too many guns for a settler, and too few trinkets for a scavenger. Best case scenario, she was pegged as a mercenary; worst case, a Gunner. Either way, she'd be dead before she could even open her mouth to explain. She could run, but by the time she pulled herself to her feet, the solider would already have the minigun revved. No escaping that—the wall was already in ruin. She was trapped.

The silence stretched, light fixed on the lip by Dogmeat's back.

 _Don't fucking move._

She heard the gears churn in the power armour, the shift in weight as the solider changed their stance. Her stomach tightened again, and her heart leapt to her throat.

"Probably nothing. Stand down, Michaels."

Grey felt herself deflate against the wall, ears numb to the continued conversation. The light had flicked away. Her arms trembled as she tried to loosen her grip on her gun, fingers white from the strain.

She was a fucking fool, perching herself up there, pretending to know anything about recon or stealth. She was an attorney for fuck's sake, an overconfident asshole whose only two skills were bullshiting and failing to give a crap. She'd only gotten her hands on her first sniper rifle several weeks ago, and yet there she was, peering through a scope and convincing herself she could spy on a professional army with complete ease. Fuck, she'd even spent a good hour contemplating whether she had the upper body strength to pull herself up onto the station's fire escape without drawing attention. Even if it could hold her weight, it would be rusted and louder than a foghorn. That, and she'd never done a pull-up in her life. What made her think she could do one now, especially after having her muscles on ice for 200 years?

She was smarter than this, and she knew it. She was doing the one thing she promised herself she wouldn't do: be like her husband. Be a complete and utter fool.

Fuck that and fuck him. She needed to do this right.

Gathering up her gear and slipping away from the wall, she tapped two fingers against her leg, drawing Dogmeat's gaze. Time to go.

—

"'Decimated'? That's the word you're going with?" Laughter clung to Haylen's voice, its serious note all but engulfed by the smile tugging at her lips.

"Yes, Doc, _decimated_."

The laughter broke free. "I don't know, Knight, that word sounds awfully advanced. If I didn't know better I'd say you'd been repla—"

Haylen froze.

Grey smirked, continuing to lean against the far wall. "Oh, don't stop on my behalf. I want to see where this was going."

Rhys glowered, straightening his back. "What the hell are you doing back here?"

"Rhys," Haylen hissed, cheeks aflame.

"No, Haylen, I'm not—"

A throat clearing cut him short. Rhys' body immediately stiffened into attention.

Grey swivelled her head as the Paladin walked into the station's reception area in full power armour. His step was light despite the weight; Grey found herself wondering if the armour ever came off.

"Knight, you will show our guest the respect she deserves."

Grey watched the muscles tighten in Rhys' jaw. "Yes, sir."

"At ease, then."

Dogmeat pressed against Grey's leg as the Paladin approached. She dropped her hand to scratch behind his ears. From her periphery, she could tell that Danse was attempting not to loom, but the height of the suit made it near impossible. She could sense him waiting, not with urgency or an invasion of her space, but with a quiet patience, a quiet yet unintentionally imposing patience. For a second, she was twenty-six again, Nate to her left, service uniform pristine, waiting for her to look up, to see him, see he was alive. She forced herself to look up at Paladin Danse and the memory faded. She swallowed the feeling down, something hollow taking its place.

"There's still a place for you in the Brotherhood."

Grey blinked. "What?"

"If you want it."

It wasn't that easy, was it? Grey had planned her pitch from Goodneighbor to Cambridge. Find a way to confront the Paladin, remind him of her abilities, her "selfless" assistance at ArkJet, her contribution to the cause. Make some false platitudes, strike some terms and conditions she could pretend to abide by for as long as necessary until she had what she needed. She'd rehearsed the overconfident approach, the subservient approach, even the legs-wide, cunt-welcoming approach. So yes, it took her a moment to recover, mind fighting the bewilderment her face wished to convey.

She wanted to ask, "Why?" Why her, why still the pitch. She'd seen the quality of the soldiers outside. Toned women and men, expertise in weapon handling, equipped for Armageddon. Grey wasn't one to sell herself short, but she knew that nothing about her said "soldier". She didn't have the stance, the discipline. She barely had the gear; half of her firearms were held together with rusted bolts and duct tape. It didn't quite make sense, but maybe that was the point: nothing in this post-apocalyptic nightmare ever did.

"I'd be honoured to join."

The corners of his mouth gave the slightest quiver. "Then that settles it. Haylen, Rhys," he called over his shoulder, "it's time to welcome our newest recruit to the Brotherhood. She shows a lot of promise, and with the proper guidance, I think she has the potential of becoming one of the best."

She wanted to laugh at that, but settled for a false smile. "Thanks, I promise not to let you down." If only that were true.

Haylen approached, eyes bright and cheeks still flushed. "You don't have to prove anything else to me. Getting that transmitter was enough."

Rhys scoffed. "So you decided to stay, huh? I expected you to take your payment and run."

Grey threw a flirtatious glance at him, lips lightly pouted, head slightly tilted. She knew how to deal with men like Rhys; they were much easier to overcome as they stewed in confusion. "Let's just hug this out and get it over with, huh? What do you say?"

His brow furrowed. "You can play it however you want, tough girl. It's going to take a lot more than completing one mission to impress me."

"Rhys, that's enough." Paladin Danse's voice shot through the police station like an arrow. "Like it or not, you're going to have to learn to work together. And _you_ ," he stressed, eyes fixed on Grey. Her stomach dropped. "You need to understand what it means to be a part of the Brotherhood. We're not soldiers of fortune, we're an army. And we've dedicated our lives to uphold a strict code of ethics. If you intend to stay within our ranks, you need to obey our tenants without question."

 _Well, fuck_ , Grey thought, regaining her composure. "Understood."

"Outstanding. Since I know you're eager to get started, I'll get right to the point. I only ask for two things from anyone under my command: honesty and respect. You fall in line, you stay in line. I give you an order and you follow it. It's as simple as that."

Grey wasn't exactly a follower, but sure, she could play along. At least for a while.

"There's one last order of business I want to get out of the way. I'm going to recommend you to be awarded the rank of Knight. Now, nothing's official until you speak to Elder Maxson, but I wanted you to be the first to know."

Again, words nearly failed her, but she could see Haylen to her right, face glowing. _Play the part, Grey._

"Thank-you."

"Thanks aren't necessary," he said with a faint smile. "Just continue excelling at your duties, soldier."

 _And_ w _hat duties are those?_ she wondered.

"Ad victorium, Knight."

"She doesn't even know what that means, Haylen," Rhys snapped.

The Paladin elected to ignore the tone. "'Ad victorium' means 'to victory'. In our eyes, defeat is unacceptable because we're fighting for the future of mankind. Our rallying cry is more powerful than any weapon you can ever carry. Remember that."

Damn, she was in deep. Nate and his infantry buddies always broke into chants after a few beers or shots, some incoherent mess of numbers and names and butchered Latin. She'd thought it moronic. Nate had accused her of not knowing what it was to belong to something. Clearly her membership to the Bar Association hadn't counted.

"Understood," she replied. Two centuries later and the military hadn't changed at all.

The Paladin dismissed Haylen and Rhys and gestured for Grey to follow him deeper into the station. She weaved through broken desks and traipsed into what she assumed was once the Police Chief's office. Grey placed a hand on the desk, testing its sturdiness, before leaning back against it. It held, making only the slightest groan.

The Paladin crossed his suit's arms, face pensive. "I'm not good at this, so I'll make it brief. Those reinforcements outside, the arrival of the fleet—its a testament to the work you can do, that _we_ can do. I wasn't lying when I said you have potential. I wasn't lying in ArkJet, and I'm not lying now. But I am concerned with—"

"Paladin, security update—" The woman's words cut short as she spotted Grey over Danse's shoulder. She furrowed her sharp brows, the slightest of creases forming in her mocha skin. "Civilian," she greeted with about as much warmth as an Arctic breeze.

"It's Initiate," Danse corrected.

A muscle twitched in her cheek, but her expression remained unmoving.

"Apologies, Paladin. _Initiate_."

Grey didn't bother to respond.

"Grey, this is Knight Captain Daniels. This site of operations is now under her command, and you are expected to obey her directive whilst here."

Grey gave an obvious nod, not trusting her mouth to say anything that wasn't dripping in sarcasm.

She watched Daniels size her up like like one would a cut of veal. The way she peered across her nose made it look as though she was peering down at Grey, an impossibility as Grey had at least three inches on the woman. That wasn't to say Daniels was short; she was average height if not slightly taller. Grey had met few women taller than herself, and that suited her fine. She fancied looking up to no one, literally or figuratively.

Daniel's mouth twitched into a smirk. "Wasn't sure what to expect when you had me keeping an eye out for a female Vault dweller. I was expecting..." She shook her head. "Doesn't matter. I expect great things of you, Initiate, having been recruited by the Paladin." Her gaze hardened. "Don't disappoint."

Grey gave another nod, still not trusting herself to be audible.

So, she'd been expected. Grey wasn't sure what to make of that yet, but the lack of resistance she'd received at the gate made a great deal more sense.

After slinking away from the appliance shop, Grey had decided her best option was to strip down to the bare essentials, look as non-threatening as possible, and approach the police station like she belonged. Once upon a time she'd have opted for an air of importance or indifference; that and the right pair of designer shoes usually got her through any door she'd fancied. That tactic wasn't going to work anymore though, especially against power-armoured brutes. Instead she'd stashed her armour, rifles, and grenades in a blasted out refrigerator in one of the abandoned brownstones in College Square, and pulled on her Vault 111 jumpsuit. Nothing quite said harmless like institutionalized bunker-dweller chic, apparently. She'd kept one of her hip holsters and tied a red flannel around her waist. She'd holstered Deliverer, but made it obvious, pulling back the flannel such that the 10mm showed. She'd wanted to look innocuous, after all, not moronic.

She'd mentally rehearsed her act as she approached the barricade, but before she could speak, the power-armoured soldier—Daniels, she now knew—gave a nod and stepped aside. Not a word was exchanged, but Grey had enough of her wits about her to imagine that that was as close as the Brotherhood got to a red carpet welcome.

Grey thrummed her fingers against her thigh as Daniels gave the Paladin a brief status update before excusing herself. And then they were alone.

Silence stretched between them, which Grey easily relished in, but she could sense the discomfort radiating from Danse. He had a purpose in pulling her aside, a speech prepared, and now it was lost. She was fine with that, if only because the word 'concern' was so quickly being thrown around. She didn't need that, at least not this early in the game.

Grey stopped her thrumming and straightened her back. The desk gave a creak.

"If there's nothing else, Paladin, may I be excused?"

He considered her a moment, and she could imagine his lips uttering, "Dismissed." The word was all but spilling from his mouth. But then his expression changed, his eyes hardening, and Grey knew she wasn't escaping unscathed.

"In a moment, Initiate. What I wanted to discuss—and this is not to be taken as criticism—but I am questioning your motives for not only returning to us, but agreeing to join our ranks. It was... unexpected."

Grey fought the urge to smirk. It wasn't a genuine smirk and it never had been. More of an automatic response, one born of hours practising depositions, hours in mock trial scenarios, hours of lying to men, convincing them she may have once cared. Grey's emotions rarely bled to her face, but some opponents only required the slightest flicker of worry or rage to confirm that their doubts had some semblance of substance. It gave others an edge over her that she couldn't afford. So she forced herself to smile, to smirk, give the slightest glimmer or amusement or thrill when she was caught in a lie, or even when someone fumbled upon an inconvenient truth. At first it was a diversion tactic, but now it was part of her, a part no longer relevant in a rusted, irradiated world. Or was it?

"You're lying."

His brows ached as she watched him mentally take a step back. "Excuse me?"

"It wasn't unexpected," she said, squaring up to him. "Your actions speak otherwise. You knew, deep down, that I'd be back, because this is where I belong. You knew it long before I did, and you trusted that I'd figure it out, in time, if the Commonwealth didn't kill me first. That's why you told the Knight-Captain to keep an eye out for a Vault dweller. That, and you knew I was still alive."

Grey tilted her head towards the office's pre-war radio, the low hum of Diamond City Radio little more than static. "Travis is a bit of a sensationalist, but he means well."

The Paladin's brow remained furrowed, but she saw the intensity drain from his eyes. Grey gave the slightest smile, masking the maelstrom of anxiety coursing beneath her skin. The Paladin wasn't an idiot, she knew that, but she also knew the power of suggestive speech. She needed him to believe her, trust her, otherwise none of this would work. And she couldn't afford that. Shaun couldn't afford that.

"Perhaps there is... some truth to your words." He adverted his gaze from the radio and to a boarded up window. "I imagine you will want to take some time to settle in. Haylen can attend to any injuries you may have sustained, and Rhys can assist with any weapon maintenance. Beyond that, we are to hold this position until we receive orders from the Prydwen."

That word again. "The Prydwen?"

"Our airship. You likely saw it as it flew over Boston last night. I'll radio in that we are ready to move and awaiting their orders. Until then, we remain vigilant. Dismissed, Initiate."

Grey's legs twinged with the urge to leave, to flee, but she found herself studying the Paladin's face. A strange look of apprehension and longing twisted through his features and pulled at the muscles in his jaw. There was something there, in that ship, or on it. A connotation, a conflict, a person. Everyone had ghosts that haunted them. She could only wonder what shape the Paladin's took.

Giving him one last look, she quickly slipped away.


	3. Busted

CHAPTER 3  
Busted

Shards of artificial light shone through broken ceiling beams and crumbling drywall. The light was dull, sickly. Green. She hated the colour, always had. Why RobCo had decided on green as their default terminal colour escaped her. She'd always found it stark and unsettling, those flashing green cursors. They reminded her of work left unfinished, papers left unedited, things left unsaid.

Night had long since settled over College Square. Grey could smell harbour fog in the distance, feel the humidity press into her skin. A light sweat broke upon her neck and a chill ran from her jaw to her navel. She shivered as she pulled her shoulder holster over her jumpsuit, the worn leather cold to the touch.

Boston's weather had changed since her time. December used to be one of the coldest months of the year, temperatures always hovering near freezing. Grey could still remember the feel of the cold in early morning. A gasp of breath escaping chapped lips, bodies pressed against one another beneath the warmth of the duvet. The bone-licking cool as she'd slid a bare leg from the bed. Nate's hands reaching for her, palms callused but warm, calling her back.

Grey pressed her fingers to her face, the antagonizing green glow of her Pip-Boy stinging her left eye.

No, December wasn't like that anymore. There'd been no ice, no snow. Even now, the temperature was tolerable, easily combatted with a jacket or extra layer. Effects of the bombs, she imaged. One of many.

Dogmeat laid by her feet, lapping into a can of pre-war dog food. A fine layer of dust had worked its way into his coat, his underside practically grey. She lifted her hands from her face, seeing the same grey, the same dust and mire. There were calluses behind that dirt, patches of dry, cracked skin running from her left index finger down across her palm. Just like her husband's, except her hands still reeked of gunshot residue. Nate's never had. He knew how she'd hated it, hated the reminder of what he did, what his Army was doing—what they did.

Would this Brotherhood be any different? Grey shook her head. She couldn't afford to think like that, not while she needed them. Whatever sense of morality she once had was no longer applicable. The world had changed too much, and she imagined even pre-war ghouls would struggle to remember the world and its values that were still so fresh in her mind. And even if they did, she doubted they'd understand.

A floorboard creaked.

Grey felt her muscles tighten. Blood drained from her face, heart shuddering against her ribs. She instinctively reached for Kellogg's .44 revolver, desperate to shoot and run, but she forced herself to stop. She couldn't take the risk. She wouldn't.

She could sense someone behind her, by the blasted out brownstone door. She estimated there was twenty-five feet between them, but they may as well have been pressed against Grey's back, purring in her ear. Goosebumps prickled her flesh. Her fingertips skimmed the revolver's grip. But then she heard Dogmeat, jaws working and tongue lapping. Unfazed, unthreatened.

Grey pressed her palms into her thighs, slowly pushing herself to her feet.

"Is there something I can assist you with, Knight Captain?"

She heard Daniels give a small chuckle. Wood groaned, and Grey didn't need to turn around to know the woman was leaning against what remained of the doorway.

"I think I'm beginning to understand the Paladin's decision."

 _That makes one of us_ , Grey mused, slinging her sniper rifle over her back. She turned, watching as Daniels' sharp features were tinged green and grey, her beautiful skin reduced to ugly highlights and shadows. Her flight suit clung to an athletic frame, hints of curves amongst lean muscle. There was a beauty to her fierceness, Grey realized. She watched as the Knight Captain again sized her up, eyes scrolling slower this time, gaze lingering along her collarbones, beneath, the slightest of grins tugging at her lips. A muscle twinged in Grey's gut, heat building along her neck. Her hormones and her adrenaline never did play well together. She was smart enough to recognize when a game was being played, though, no matter how tempting the premise was. Grey was just disappointed she wasn't the one orchestrating it.

"The flannel—that was truly a nice touch. Just Wastelander enough to not look entirely fabricated. But this look," Daniels said, motioning to the firearms and knives strapped to Grey's body, "A little closer to home, perhaps? A little closer to the Vault dweller rumoured to be carving up half of downtown Boston?" She locked eyes with Grey, temptation draining from her features. Grey clenched her jaw.

"I'm not your sponsor, and I'm not your commanding officer, so I'll speak plainly. That mercenary shit won't fly with us. You either get in line or get out. Understood?"

Grey fought the urge to smirk as she grabbed her duffle bag from the fridge. She approached the Knight-Captain slowly but deliberately, throwing the bag over her shoulder as she walked. She gave a nod as she moved to push past her, but she felt Daniels thrust her shoulder into her chest, hard enough to falter Grey's pace but not hard enough to bruise.

"One last thing," Daniels whispered into her ear, breath hot and sweet. "Next time you're tempted to scout out an active site of operations? _Don't._ "

Grey pushed past, feet guiding her into the Square. She didn't trust herself to look back or to speak. They were playing a game, after all, and the Knight-Captain thought she had the upper-hand. No need to confirm it.

Dogmeat chased after Grey, paws padding against the asphalt. Only when the Knight-Captain was out of earshot did Grey let out a laugh. The uneasiness of it stayed with her as she walked back toward the compound. Brotherhood soldiers nodded as she approached, all sense of previous reservation apparently gone. Somehow she was one of them, at least in their eyes. Whatever reservations Daniels had, clearly she hadn't shared them with her ilk. Grey decided not to think on it, at least not yet.

Pushing through the police station doors, a familiar frame stood at the top of the stairs. She paid him little regard, muttering a, "Hey", as she attempted to pass. An arm shot out, stopping her short.

"Alright, out with it. What's your game?"

Grey kissed her teeth before meeting Rhys' narrowed gaze. She wasn't in the mood for this, but clearly her wishes meant jack shit.

"Game?" she feigned, tone deliberately mocking. "What do you mean?"

"I can usually size people up at a glance, but you—you're different. And it's bugging the heck out of me. You're not the military type, you're a loner, so I can't figure out why you're sticking around. You got what you wanted, so why don't you hit the road?"

Grey pursed her lips. People were seeing through her too easily. Two people in ten minutes had to be a personal record. Her instinct was to belittle or disregard him, but that tact wasn't going to work here. Neither was sarcasm, as tempting as that option was. Having the Paladin buy into her bullshit was one thing, but that victory would be short lived if his squad weren't convinced of her loyalties.

"What can I say that will make you trust me?"

"There's nothing you can say. Trust is earned through action—nothing more, nothing less."

She arched her brow, his words not warranting a verbal response.

He sighed. "Look, I'm going to cut you some slack because Danse trusts you, but if you step out of line and put any of my brothers or sisters in danger, I'll make sure you regret it."

He dropped his arm and strode outside, some of the heaviness leaving with him. The threat was still there though, and Grey knew she was on thin ice.

Trust was a conflicting notion for her. In her career, trust was irrelevant much of the time. She'd worked criminal prosecution for JAG Corps, so the only "trust" she'd encouraged was that her peers shut the fuck up and trust she'd do her job and do it well. Trust had always been a one way street, and she'd preferred it that way. Likely because people, by and large, weren't trustworthy. Everyone was out for their own interests some way or another, and the easiest way to be used or abused was to default to the position that people were, perhaps, honourable. That wasn't to say there weren't honourable people out there—she liked to think she'd married one of them—but she'd never assume it. She'd never gave her trust. So was it rich that she was asking Rhys to trust her? Yes, and made all the richer by the fact she didn't deserve it. Asking for it was another deception, another lie.

"Rhys still giving you the cold shoulder?"

Haylen peered over the railing.

Grey looked up. "I can handle it."

Haylen scoffed. "If you could, you'd be the first. Rhys _bleeds_ brotherhood. It's all he cares about; it's his family, it's his whole life. If anything else comes into the picture and gets in his way, he shoves it aside."

There was vigour in her words. Hurt, Grey realized.

"Is there something between the two of you?"

Something flickered behind her eyes. "When I first joined up, Rhys was the one who sponsored me. He took me under his wing, showed me the ropes. I thought there was a little more between us, so I asked him if he cared about me that way. He told me that the Brotherhood of Steel was all that he cared about. And there was no room for anything else in his life. We never spoke about it again."

She paused, body language turning stiff. "Look, I—I need to get back to things. If you're worried about Rhys, just keep doing what you're doing. He'll come around soon enough."

With a forced smile, she returned to her terminal, fingers clicking away. Grey continued around the corner, watching the woman type. She couldn't see the content, just the glimmer of garnish green text. The flashing, pixelated cursor, scrolling across the screen.

She hated that colour.


	4. Honesty

**CHAPTER 4**  
Honesty

She could feel eyes boring into her between key strokes. Each click of the typewriter accompanied by a sneered upper lip, a sigh of indignation. She wondered how exhausted the paralegal was at the end of each shift if he treated even half of the Major's summons with such forced distain. She also wondered how inept he must be to feel the need to act in such a way. Overcompensation was such a pitiful thing.

Grey leaned back in the antique armchair, skirt sliding against the leather. She examined her nails for the umpteenth time, deciding the shape wasn't entirely consistent, the slightest of cracks appearing in her French tips. She needed a new manicurist, someone who knew how to properly use a goddamn emery board.

The Major's desk stretched before her, nameplate large and obtrusive. No one needed that many names, let alone that many honourifics. The desk was as ostentatious as the plaque, carved mahogany, heavyset and reeking of lemon-scented wood polish. She knew the Major was married with several children, but nothing about his office suggested as much. It was devoid of personal touches. Several file folders were perfectly stacked to the right of the desk, suggesting to Grey that her boss was either anal retentive or did little work outside of delegation and telephone conferences. She wasn't sure which option she'd place money on; both seemed equally likely.

She didn't like waiting. It, like most Army protocol and policy, was a substantial waste of already precious time. She didn't care if a senior officer summoned her, and she was about to tell the paralegal as much until she heard the typing cease. A body lifted from its chair, feet snapping together. A stern, "At ease" followed.

Major Cantrell took all of three steps into his office, fixed Grey with a hardened look, and motioned for her to follow. For a man of forty, he strode like one in his twenties, all urgency and power. Fine for a loaded march, but ridiculous for JAG headquarters. Grey struggled to match his pace, her stilettos sliding ever-so slightly on the deco-style marble floors. The Major thrust a file folder toward her, not bothering with something as trivial at eye contact.

"You've been briefed on the Walsh case I trust."

It wasn't a question, and Grey knew he'd interpret any monosyllabic acknowledgement as a waste of valuable air.

"Specialist Walsh of the 108th Infantry Regiment has been accused of the attempted murder of Corporal James. James remains in critical condition at Kendall, last I heard. Charges against Walsh are unlikely to be filed though due to insufficient evidence." Grey paused. "Unless there have been developments I'm unaware of?"

The Major pulled open the door and beckoned Grey into the concourse. They walked along the upper floor, bodies and noise rushing around and below them, echoing throughout the large chamber. His heavy-set brow was furrowed, and she could see the muscles tightening along his jaw.

"I'm pulling you from your other cases, effective immediately. The Walsh case is your top priority now. You'll be assisting Lieutenant Mitchell. She's been assigned as lead prosecutor. Her case, her rules."

Grey bit down the urge to protest. She honestly would have preferred having bamboo shoved under her nails than work with the Lieutenant. _Might even out the shape_ , she thought bitterly.

Grey had no personal quarrel with Mitchell. By all regards, she was a brilliant judge advocate and notably skilled in criminal litigation . She was efficient, fact-focused, and brutally honest, and while those were traits Grey would admire in any attorney, she also knew that Mitchell was a hair-trigger away from complete and utter emotional collapse. The woman appeared all business—no pleasures, no hobbies, no existence outside of her office's four monochromatic walls. There was clearly some trauma underlying it all—her need for order and perfection, her flattened affect—but Grey was no psychologist, nor did she care to be one.

She and Mitchell had completed their officer training together the year before, four weeks of listing protocols, cold showers, and itchy uniforms. It was a formality more than anything, but Mitchell approached it with an unsettling level of resolve. Grey had honestly taken little notice of her, passing her off as a sheltered Harvard grad hovering somewhere on the Autistic spectrum, until one of the recruits returned to base, unable to hold his liquor or his inhibitions, and grabbed Mitchell in the hall, ramming his hand down her blouse. Before Grey could move, Mitchell had kneed him in the crotch and casually sauntered off. Grey'd passively followed Mitchell, feeling some sense of witness responsibility or misguided gender solidarity. Except Mitchell paid her no heed, and Grey found herself tracking Mitchell to the shooting range. She watched the woman gingerly retrieve a .308 sniper rifle and load the magazine, her movements devoid of haste or tension. But instead of aim it down the range, she turned it back on the barracks.

Mitchell never fired. She just rested on her elbows for what seemed hours, staring through the scope, watching. After a few minutes, Mitchell dismantled the rifle and placed it back in storage. She calmly walked back to the barracks as if nothing had happened. And perhaps nothing had, but Grey knew at that moment that Mitchell's need for control far outweighed any other human impulse. That and Grey had no intention of finding herself on the other side of that scope, then or ever.

Mitchell stood at the bottom of the stairs, talking to a serviceman in full uniform, his back to Grey and the Major. She eyed the Lieutenant. Wire-rimmed glasses sat on a petite nose and unremarkable face. Her mousey brown hair was pulled back tight, the skin by her temples pale and taut. Her suit didn't quite fit, like she'd had it tailored but then lost a tad too much weight. Her face was unmoving as she spoke, eyes a listless, murky brown. She hadn't changed at all.

"Rumour has it, Lieutenant, that you're rather efficient in—how shall I put this— _extracting_ necessary information by whatever means necessary."

Grey paused and fixed the Major with a look. "Sir?"

"Mitchell is good, but she doesn't have the specific expertise required to handle this particular component of the case. I expect you to apply your skill set in her stead." He discretely thrust his chin towards the serviceman, identifying her mark. "Do we have an understanding?"

Grey paled, pulse quickening. What exactly was being said about her? She may not have always been entirely above board, but she was discreet. She'd never given a shit about her personal reputation, but her professional one was everything to her. She didn't need conjecture this early in her career, especially the type that was being acknowledged by her superior. She wasn't sure what disturbed her more though: that her colleagues gossiped about her tactics and exploits, or that her boss was giving her carte blanche to use them.

"And the target?"

"Witness," he corrected before lightly cupping her elbow. Grey's pace faltered as he leaned into the crook of her neck, the smell of cigars and Hugo Boss aftershave near nauseating.

"You succeed at this and there's a promotion waiting for you. You fail and—" He abruptly pulled away and she nearly toppled down the steps.

She caught herself, as he knew she would, and gave her pencil skirt a flick as she straightened. She forced her face into a veneer of calm, even as her heart shuddered against her ribs. _Message received._

Major Cantrell strode past her, drawing Mitchell's attention and address. She nodded to Grey then, stiffly beckoning her into the fold. The serviceman pivoted with her approach, the slightest of smiles breaking upon a strikingly handsome face. Grey steeled herself.

"Lieutenant, this is Sergeant Anders, 108th Infantry Regiment, 2nd Battalion. Sergeant, Lieutenant Grey has been assigned to assist you with your deposition."

Grey held out her hand and he took it in stride. His touch was gentle but firm, skin lightly calloused. He watched her intently, gauging every inch of her reaction, and discretely ran his thumb along the back of her hand. She stiffened, fighting to urge to jerk away. His smile deepened, icy blue eyes glistening.

They were knowing eyes, she realized, the type that didn't belong on his playboy face. They were the type that took too much interest and looked too deep. They weren't military eyes, and that should have chilled her to her core, but instead it intrigued her. He was something different, something terrifying, and something that would ruin her, one way or another.

"I look forward to working with you, Sergeant," she smiled, lying through her teeth.

"Please," he said, the word inching its way down her spine like a velvet glove. "Call me Nate."

—

Grey woke with a start. The tendrils of his voice lingered.

She pressed her fingertips to her ears, jagged nails skating across cold cartilage. Her brain reeled with momentary confusion, wondering where her husband had gone, if the baby was awake. But then reality snapped into place and her mind went numb.

She breathed deep, grounding herself. She heard the soldiers' rustling bodies, their slow, deep breaths, the occasional snore. Heat emanated from them, bodies too close, sleeping bags nearly touching. They slept like a pack of wasteland dogs, relying on the illusion of safety in numbers. Relying on the knives strapped to their backs. It was suffocating.

She needed air.

Grey crept over the torsos and limbs, eyes struggling to adjust in the near dark. There was a faint glow outside the window, the scanning headlight from a power armour suit. She tiptoed from reception into a half dilapidated hallway, a rusted milk machine leaning against crumbling drywall. She ascended the staircase, finding the second floor inaccessible, and continued upward. An exit sign flickered over the roof access door; a screech of wind tore through crumbled weather seals. She could feel the chill of night as she approached, but it didn't matter. She needed the cold, something to snap away the past, rip it from her skin.

He met her gaze as she stepped onto the roof. She could see the second of alarm, how his shoulders squared, weapon grip tightening. It was momentary though, and he quickly returned to his perch.

"I'm sorry, I can—"

"It's alright," the Paladin said lightly. "I couldn't sleep either."

Grey noticed he was out of his power armour for once, orange flightsuit clinging to a broad, muscled frame. He leaned against the roof's railing, gaze distant, removed. He fingered something silver, flipping it back and forth along his index and middle fingers with his thumb. Her husband would do that with bullet casings, roll them between his fingers as he thought. It took everything in her to not turn and run. But run where? That was the real question, one she couldn't bear to answer, if only because there was no where left to go.

She slowly approached the Paladin, placing a person's width between them. Grey crossed her arms and leaned into the railing. The night air was damp and heavy on her chest, Vault suit offering little warmth. The Charles stretched before her, both river and road devoid of life. Grey felt as if she could close her eyes and conjure throngs of speeding cars and flashing lights, the memories were so close. Ghosts, she realized, that only she could see. Or maybe it was her that was the ghost, the last remnant of a broken, unfathomable world.

"I haven't been completely forthcoming with you."

From the corner of her eye, she could see the Paladin shift uneasily.

"I've let you assume things, false things, and while some part of me still believes the absence of truth is not always a lie, it's still not fair." Grey paused, steadying her breath. "You deserve better than that."

He remained silent for a moment, considering her.

"Why the change of heart?"

She shrugged. "Not sure. Maybe I'm starting to realize that this world has changed, and I'm doing myself a disservice by clinging to old habits and beliefs. Or maybe I'm just tired—of concealing, of lying, of hiding away. Or maybe, just maybe, I need to learn to place a little faith in someone other than myself. Which, now that I've said it aloud, is a truly terrifying prospect."

She gripped the railing, stomach rolling and nerves firing. She didn't plan for it to go this way. It wasn't supposed to go this way. It was supposed to be acting and subterfuge and false platitudes. Play the part, sink into the background, get what she needed, and get out. She convinced herself it was like any other job, any other case, but it wasn't—nothing about this was familiar, and nothing could be left to chance. She'd promised herself that, promised Nate that. And yet there she was.

So she told him. Told him that she wasn't really a Vault dweller. That she was actually a 237-year-old pre-war attorney whose husband was murdered and whose son was kidnaped. That she'd inadvertently become one of Vault-Tec's forgotten science experiments, crawling her way out of an abandoned freezer to find her life and home blasted apart at the seams. That she'd tracked down the man that ruined her life, only to learn that he was just another pawn, another player in some sick, twisted game. And that the real villain in all this was the same villain in every tragic Commonwealth tale: the Institute.

She smirked to herself. "I don't expect you to believe a word of what I just said. Because, just listening to it, _I_ don't even know if I believe it. But I need to find the Institute, and I think we both know that the Brotherhood is my only chance of doing that."

He hadn't looked at her since she started talking. He probably thought she was mad. Some brain-damaged chem addict that had somehow snuck in through their door. Would he calmly ask her leave, or would he turn his gun on her and put her out of her misery? Should she even give him the chance? Fuck, she was a moron. An absolute, utter—

"I've received orders that we're both to report to the Prydwen. Transport is scheduled to arrive at sunrise."

Grey turned toward the Paladin, confusion brimming. "Why would you still want me?"

He didn't reply.

"You know my motives are entirely selfish. There's no guarantee I'll align with your ideals, that I won't get what I want and run. So why?"

He pushed away from the railing and faced her. Even without his power armour, her towered over her, her nose barely meeting his chin. He took a step towards her, narrowing the gap between them. "Because the Brotherhood is a family. Because we support one another. Because we never leave one of our own behind. And while you may think your ideals misalign with ours, what you're fighting for—what you've bled for— _that_ is Brotherhood, through and through."

She could sense the tension in him, thrumming beneath his skin, bleeding onto his face. She felt the same tension in herself, the want to pick a fight, to have someone yell at her or scream. To dig her nails into flesh and watch it bleed. She wasn't one of them. She wasn't military. She wasn't supposed to be, and yet...

The Paladin exhaled and she could feel the warmth of his breath on her face, watch it steam in the thin air between them. She could tilt her head back, lift herself onto her toes and—

She balled her hands into fists, planting them by her sides. No, she couldn't reach for him. Couldn't touch him. It was just adrenaline and dopamine, a confusion of frustration and lust. Like with Daniels, with so many others.

She stepped away.

The Paladin straightened, adverting his gaze. "People join for many reasons, virtue being the least cited. What we are and what we believe comes gradually, through experience and victory and... loss.

"I said you had potential, Initiate, and I meant it. You join our cause, and you won't be alone in this. You have my word that I will do everything in my power to help rescue your son. Understood?"

No, she didn't understand—couldn't understand. If she'd thought about this conversation, actually thought about a potential disclosure, she never would have done it. In no scenario did she anticipate his response. It wasn't logical; it shouldn't have happened. Her confession, her need for absolution—it was a weakness, one born of fleeting emotional vulnerability. Weakness caused by memories of what was, of love lost, a life mourned. And yet there she was, still intact despite that vulnerability.

And maybe, just maybe, not entirely alone.

"Understood."


	5. Fears

CHAPTER 5  
Fears

Something collided with her leg and she jolted awake.

Before she could reach for her gun, a blur of white shot toward her and she threw her hands over her face. Something soft and damp collided with her palm, confusing her.

Grey turned it over in her hands, not having seen material so clean since the bombs fell. It smelled of ash and tallow. Little bubbles formed as she rubbed her fingers along the woven strands. Her touch left streaks of dirt and something darker, redder. Kellogg's blood. It had only been two days since she'd killed him, but it somehow felt like a lifetime ago. So what did that say about her?

"Top's looking for you."

Grey slid her gaze to Rhys. He stood at the base of her sleeping bag, shoulders pushed back and brow stern. He eyed the cloth she held.

"Best wash up before you head out."

"Can I trust it's not laced with chloroform?"

"Chloro…" She could see the wheels turn in his head, the bewilderment before his expression soured. He made a guttural sound of disgust before stomping out of the room.

A gentle laugh came from her left, and Grey turned to see Daniels sitting by the window. She leaned back in an old office chair, balancing the wooden frame on two legs, her feet resting on the windowsill. She cradled a tiny gourd in her hand, combat knife wedged into the fruit's wrinkled skin. She carved off another bite and slipped it into her mouth, juices running down the knife's edge.

"If it makes you feel any better, poison and subterfuge isn't Rhys' way. When he does come for you, it'll be head on and you'll both be armed."

If Daniels wanted a thank-you for her lacklustre warnings, she could look elsewhere. Grey instead pressed the washcloth to her face, relishing in the feel of lukewarm cotton and actual soap. It took everything in her to suppress a moan. She scrubbed until her skin went from tingling to burned. Face, neck, collarbones, hands. When she finished, the cloth looked as if it had been soaked in mud. She tossed it into a nearby bucket. There was still an ashy sheen to her skin, but Grey could finally see some of the pink in her hands.

Daniels watched in silence as Grey re-equipped her holsters and armour, restringing herself with knives and guns. She packed the remnants of her gear in her duffle bag and squirted some toothpaste into her mouth. She swished it around, the paste somehow still minty despite it having expired two centuries earlier. She heard another light laugh as she spit into the same bucket. When she looked up, Daniels was all but pressed against her, having moved across the room like a phantom.

Grey steadied herself, watching the Knight-Captain carefully as one would a feral dog. She still held the gourd and knife.

"You clean up rather nice," she said, voice like a purr.

Grey gave a smirk, loosening her stance and learning toward the woman. She took a single step, left breast grazing Daniels' shoulder, her hair teasing the skin along Grey's jaw.

"You have no idea," she whispered, lips grazing the top of Daniels' ear.

The Knight-Captain gave another laugh and gently brought the edge of the knife to Grey's mouth. She could smell the sweetness of the fruit and parted her lips, allowing the Knight-Captain to slide a slice over her teeth. Grey ran her tongue along the knife's false edge, the juices running down her tongue, mixing with the fibre-like slice of gourd. The Knight-Captain's lips quivered ever-so lightly, mocha skin lightly flushed. Grey toyed with the idea of touching her, brushing her knuckles along the edge of her neck, running her fingers along the inside of her thigh. But that would take things too far and force one of them to react poorly, potentially lose whatever game it was they were playing.

Grey took a step forward, toward the door, body pushing past the Knight-Captain's.

"Thanks for the bite."

The Captain smiled, the look anything but pleasant.

"Good luck, Initiate. You'll need it."

* * *

Grey found Danse back in the Police Chief's office. He was again clad in power armour. She watched him test his arm actuators, elbow bending and mechanical fingers tensing. He then slammed a fist into his suit's open palm, the sheer force whipping dust back into Grey's face. She forced a cough and he quickly turned, features slightly alarmed.

She gave a false smile to soothe his nerves. "You asked for me, sir?"

He gave a nod. "Transport's arrived, and our orders still stand to report to the Prydwen. So, Initiate, are you ready to head up to the ship?"

 _No._ That was the gut reaction, the one that knew the ship contained too many unknowns. It was one thing for her to traipse around a compound she'd canvased weeks earlier, one in which she at least knew a fraction of the soldiers she'd be encountering. But the Prydwen would be a departure from all familiarly and control. New environment, new soldiers, new challenges. Yes, Danse knew who she was and had said he'd help her, but he was one person. One highly ranked person from what she could discern, but he still reported to higher-ups, and who was to say they'd be as easy to cajole or manipulate. Grey felt like she was walking into a courtroom blind, not even afforded the courtesy of case notes or an evidence list. But she'd make do. She had to.

"Why did the Brotherhood send it here in the first place?"

"I'm not sure," Danse said. "But I think it may have something to do with the data on the Commonwealth my team gathered before it arrived. We call our ship the Prydwen; she's loaded with enough troops and supplies to mount a major offensive. If she's here, Elder Maxson's here, and that means we're going to war."

 _War?_ That in and of itself sparked too many questions, but she had to compartmentalize. Focus.

"Who's Elder Maxson?"

"Maxson is the commander of this division of the Brotherhood of Steel. He's the model of what every Brotherhood soldier hopes to become. If we're going to war, I can promise you that he will be leading the charge."

So Maxson was her target then. The one with his finger on the metaphorical trigger. Or the literal one, noting how easily Danse was now throwing around the word "war". War against whom though? The raiders, the Gunners? They were no match for the forces she'd seen occupy the skies over Fort Hagen. No, if they were going to war, it was against the force they had yet to see: the Institute. Against the people that now had Shaun.

 _Fuck._

"That being said," the Paladin continued, "you're about to get to know the Prydwen up close and personal. I've received orders that we are both to report to her immediately. Follow me up to the roof of the police station; we're going for a little ride."

Grey followed the Paladin up the stairs she'd climbed just hours before in the near-dark. She could see a series of fresh footprints in decades' worth of dust. Some of those were hers, but which she couldn't say. She suddenly wondered how many more traces of her existed across the Commonwealth, traces both old and new. Her and Nate's reservation to the Halloween charity gala, library books with her initials scrawled on the catalog card, the dedication her mother wrote to her in her final publication.

Grey paused on the landing, willing herself to forget that last thought. She wasn't supposed to think of her. That was the deal she'd made. Think of Shaun, focus on him and avenging Nate, but no one else. No what-ifs, no hunting for two-hundred-year-old ghosts. She knew her mother was dead. She had been for years, long before the bombs fell, so her memories served Grey no purpose.

Except she knew why she was thinking of her mother. It was the lump in her throat, the twisting of her gut with every step climbed. She could hear the Vertibird on the roof, the rumble of the fusion-core drive, the slow grind of the rotor blades. She'd known what the Paladin had meant by "transport" several hours earlier but had elected to ignore it. If she'd really thought about it, she never would have drifted back to sleep.

She forced herself up the remaining steps and through the roof access door. Danse stood alongside the metal monstrosity, his voice lost to the mechanical noise. She watched as he climbed onboard with ease, positioning himself toward to rear and grabbing onto a belted support. Dogmeat bound past Grey and made a b-line for the Paladin, effortlessly leaping onto the aircraft and settling into the crook between the pilots' chairs. Grey steeled herself and threw her duffle bag onboard. She awkwardly tried to hoist herself up, willfully ignoring the loaded minigun perched by her head. A young man in a leather flight jacket and helmet reached for her, pulling her up.

"Welcome abroad, Initiate," he said with a smile before returning to his seat.

Grey looked around to see no available seating and her blood pressure spiked. She barely noticed as the pilot handed her a flight helmet, eyes scanning for anything she could latch onto for dear life.

A cold hand rested on her shoulder and she turned, knowing the Paladin could see the panic in her eyes. He made no show of it though, and lightly took the helmet from her hands and fit it over her head. Even wearing the suit, he was gentle, power-armoured fingers moving strands of hair from her face as he positioned the helmet around her cheekbones and jaw. He pressed a button on the exterior, flipping down her visor.

"Can you hear me?"

His voice crackled over the headset and she fought the urge to nod. "Yes—Roger, or—" She made a frustrated noise, drawing a chuckle from the pilot.

Danse again showed no sign of amusement or deterrence and instead advised her how to situate herself near the minigun. He told her how to plant her feet and position her body, and then how to grip the gun and what to do if she spotted any hostiles. Oh fuck, she'd forgotten about hostiles. Raiders with goddamn missile launchers and the impulsivity of a toddler.

Some dumbass wearing a potato sack for a mask once fired one at her and Piper in downtown Boston, near the Commons. Piper had jumped onto Grey's back, pushing her face into the asphalt just as a missile rocketed overhead, spinning into the Commons and taking out one of the State House's remaining columns. Grey didn't wait for the raider to recover and unloaded her clip into his chest as Piper struggled to pull her to her feet and down some side street. Neither of them had any desire to wait and see if they'd made enough of a commotion to disturb the Swan.

"Hold on!"

Grey didn't have time to think as the fusion-core came alive and the aircraft lifted off the roof. She did as the Paladin instructed, anchoring herself, keeping her core tight to control the gun's pivot and swing. Her heart leapt into her throat as they rose, pulse pounding against the inside of her helmet. Twenty-five feet above the station, fifty, one hundred. She watched with terror as the whole of Cambridge came into view, the Brotherhood patrols outside the compound little more than specks of metal on the ground.

The ruins of CIT lay outstretched below them, and the mere sight of it was a punch to the gut. She'd never attended CIT, but she'd always revered it. It, like Harvard, was one of the few respectable institutions that put Boston on the map. Historical sites and baseball diamonds were fine, but Grey was raised in a household where knowledge was the true crux of civilized society. Academics were, of course, their own beast whom Grey had had many opinions on, but she saw enough of the big picture to separate the worker drones from the hive. Nate had been a CIT grad, having completed his Bachelors of Engineering there before the Army recruited him. Some part of her had hoped CIT would be a good legacy for Shaun, something to aspire to. But that was for a different world, one in which the university's western wing was still intact and where radioactive waste didn't litter the front quad.

"The Commonwealth looks different from up here, doesn't it?"

She looked over her shoulder at the Paladin as he gazed upon the ruins below.

"It never ceases to amaze me how drastic your perceptive of the battlefield changes from the air. We're going to need that advantage when we take on the Institute."

He was right, of course, but the mere thought of having to board another Vertibird after this was enough to make Grey want to vomit.

"They've already proven that they're technologically superior, which means there's no telling what types of weapons they'll have in their arsenal. Hopefully our air superiority and tactical know-how will make the difference. Now all we have to do is find them, and I'm betting that Elder Maxson will already have a plan in place by the time we arrive."

Grey's gut again twisted, but she couldn't tell if it was from the flight or Danse's words. She couldn't afford for Maxson to have a plan, not yet. Or, if he did, she needed to be at the forefront of it. She needed to be the first one through the door, get her son, and get out. She couldn't risk someone else going in first, someone misfiring a single bullet. She wouldn't allow it, not after all she'd done. After how far she'd come.

"I wish everyone down there believed in our cause, but they've been blinded by rumours and misinformation. They don't realize that the Brotherhood of Steel is the Commonwealth's last hope for survival. Every man, woman, and child below is in mortal danger, and it's only a matter of time before the enemy overwhelms the population. Cleansing the Commonwealth is our duty and I will gladly spill my own blood if it ensures our victory."

A part of her wanted to ask what misinformation, but she'd gotten a taste of it at the Third Rail. The ghoul's disparaging comments, MacCready's weariness to discuss their tactics in the Capital Wasteland—signs that not everyone was aligned with or even understood the Brotherhood's tenants or mantra or whatever it was. Grey was honestly hard-pressed to identify it herself. She knew they collected pre-war tech, aspiring to keep it out of the hands of those who may use it to bring further harm to the remnants of the human race. Some saw that as hoarding, others as safeguarding. Grey honestly didn't have an opinion yet. The world was a little too fucked up for her to have a practical opinion on how to best save it after only two months of exposure.

"We're on final approach to the airport. The Prydwen should be coming into view just ahead. You'll be meeting Lancer-Captain Kells on the fight deck. Just stick close to me and answer all of his questions."

"Who's Ke—" The words died in her mouth as Boston Airport came into view. No longer an airport, but a graveyard. Silver Skylanes carcasses were strewn for miles, down the runways and through the terminals. Aircraft debris jutted from the shoreline and glinted beneath the waves. Nothing was intact. Everything was in ruin.

Suddenly she was fourteen again, called to the principal's office for the second time that week. The first time was to have Sabrina's mother curse her out and blame her daughter's grade on her, somehow. The truth had been that Grey knew Miss A+ was struggling with trig and had been copying off Grey all semester. So Grey threw the test, knowing it would fuck her average but equally destroy Sabrina's. If Sabrina wanted to contest it, she'd have to expose herself as the cheating fraud she was. Grey knew she could personally supplement her own mark by saying the right thing to the teacher, so the risk was minimal. Until Sabrina's mother got involved, clearly not deterred by the fact her daughter was exposed as a Grade-A fake. She'd threatened Grey, petitioned for her to be expelled, but the principal had some backbone and shut the woman down. Or so Grey had thought. Now she sat in the office again, expecting the worst, passively listening to the crackle of the poorly tuned Radiation King TV.

" _Breaking news,_ " the TV blared for the millionth time. Another resource shortage probably, or another corporate bribe exposed.

" _This is Rodney Hartnett reporting live from the scene of the Skylanes 483 crash site outside Newark, New Jersey. The runway here is chaos, Jim—ambulances and emergency crews have been in and out all morning. So far we have 18 confirmed survivors with moderate to life threatening injuries. The passenger manifest shows 122 boarded in Toronto…_ "

Grey didn't remember leaping from her chair and gripping the television set. She watched as the picture flashed over black and white wreckage and emergency vehicles. She remembered the jagged bits of metal, the tattered wings, luggage strewn like feathers on the runway. And the rows of white tarps, dozens of unmoving rectangular bumps resting beneath.

By the time the principal summoned her, her face was streaked with tears. She knew what he was about to say before he opened his mouth. So she saved him the trouble. Danielle Grey was dead. Her mother was one of those corpses, burnt and shattered and covered in tarp.

Grey gripped the minigun as the Prydwen came into view. The majesty of the sight was lost on her, for in every silver panel all she could see were corpses strewn across forgotten runways. Each glint a body, a life lost in the pursuit of convenience and hubris and corporate greed.

"There she is," Danse said, voice swelling with pride. "It's been far too long since I've been abroad."

Grey shuddered. He wouldn't understand what she was experiencing. He couldn't.

"Alright, solider, this is the moment when everything changes. I hope you're ready."

She swallowed down the pain brimming in her chest.

She closed her eyes as they docked, not due to her nausea, but because she couldn't look at the graveyard any more. She knew her mother wasn't down there, not really. She knew she was buried in whatever remained of Toronto's York Cemetery. But her ghost was still there; it always had been when Grey flew. It was that tremble in her hand, the sweat breaking at the nape of her neck. It wasn't a fear of heights. That wouldn't be logical. Height wasn't what killed her mother.

What killed her was flying.

What killed her was defying nature in the pursuit of progress and human arrogance. What killed her was the ship Grey was docking into, and all the others like it. And that—that chilled Grey to her core.


	6. Addressed

**CHAPTER 6**  
Addressed

Grey hung back as the Paladin disembarked, pretending to fuss with her duffle bag. Dogmeat looked up at her and cocked his head, the slightest of whines coming from his throat. She ignored him, instead stealing a glance outside the Vertibird. A man in full dress uniform stood at the end of the gangway, chest pushed forward and head held high. Grey didn't need to understand the emblems to grasp that this man was likely one of the higher ranked officers. His hat alone was enough of a clue. She'd never known a senior officer to greet troops on their return though, unless Danse was far higher ranked than she'd thought. Mysteries abound.

"That's Lancer-Captain Kells."

Grey turned to the pilot and removed her flight helmet.

"So what do I need to know about him?"

He gave a short laugh. "That his bark and bite are about equally as terrifying. He's also the Prydwen's commanding officer, so good to avoid pissing him off for as long as you can."

"It sounds like you've already decided I'll end up in his bad books."

"With a face like yours?" Her flashed a flirty smile. "Oh definitely."

She returned the smile before jumping onto the gangway, Dogmeat close at her heels.

The Paladin approached Kells, his posture surprisingly relaxed. "Permission to come aboard, sir?"

"Permission granted. Welcome back, Paladin." Kells saluted, face unmoving. Grey wondered if he had any facial expressions at all. Probably looked that stoic, even when he came.

"Allow me to be the first to congratulate you on a successful mission. And is this our new recruit?" His eyes slid to her, watching intently.

That was her cue. She threw her duffle over her shoulder and approached the men, suddenly wondering if she was supposed to salute, kneel, or curtesy. She opted to stand stiffly, mirroring Kells' posture and face.

"Yes, sir," Danse replied. "I field promoted her to Initiate and I'd like to sponsor her admission into our rankings personally."

Kells gave the slightest nod of acknowledgement. "Yes, we read your reports. You'll be pleased to know that Elder Maxson has approved your request and placed to recruit in your charge."

Grey's stomach twisted. _Reports?_ She wanted to fix Danse with a look, get some clarity, but she knew Kells was too attuned to her presence for her to try anything half-subtle.

"Thank-you, sir," Danse said, clearly oblivious to her weariness. "And my current orders?"

"You are to remain on the Prydwen and await further instructions."

"Very good, sir. Ad victoriam, Captain."

Kells gave another nod. "Ad victoriam, Paladin."

Grey got the sense she and Kells were to wait until the Paladin was out of earshot before conversing. Stand there politely, look casual, perhaps even thrilled to be in one another's company. She fought a smirk. Appearances and lies, just like old times.

The Lancer-Captain turned to her the moment the Paladin's body disappeared through a hatch.

"So, you're the one Paladin Danse has taken under his wing." Kells grunted, his affectless tone somehow souring. Grey quickly realized no amount of cajoling or forced sincerity would win this man over. That at least saved her the effort of trying.

"You don't look much like a solider to me."

And there it was: the gentle taunt. A quick and dirty assessment of impulsivity and insubordination. Tap at an insecurity, see if it bruised or bled. Except Grey knew this song and dance.

"Looks can be deceiving," she said flatly.

"Which is precisely why I personally insist on scrutinizing every recruit that boards this vessel." He crossed his hands behind his back, teetering on his left leg. He'd be circling her like a vulture if the platform was any wider, using his height and body language to impart upon her how small she actually was. Classic military tactic. She nearly laughed.

"I've read Paladin Danse's reports. He seems to think you'll make a fine addition to the Brotherhood. You might expect an endorsement like that to grant you a great deal of latitude with us, but let me make one thing clear: the Brotherhood of Steel has traveled to the Commonwealth with one specific goal in mind. As the Captain of this vessel, I won't allow anyone to jeopardize our mission, no matter how valuable they think they are. Understood?"

"Absolutely."

A split-second of shock erupted across his long features, but he quickly smothered it. He didn't expect her to play by the rules, but that was fine—men never did.

"Good. That's all for now, solider. Your orders are to proceed to the command deck for the address, after which Elder Maxson wishes to have a word with you. If you have any questions, ask me now. Otherwise you are dismissed."

She wanted to know what this "word" would be about, but Kells would never divulge that. No, she would have to be subtle or, at the very least, practical. That and there was more than one way to skin a cat.

"Can you tell me anything about Elder Maxson?"

"Elder Maxson is the Supreme Commander of the Brotherhood. Without his tenacity and his vision, we'd still be a small group of complacent stragglers, occupying the Citadel in the Capital Wasteland. In a mere decade, he's grown the Brotherhood of Steel into a major military force. He's an inspiration to us all. Is there anything else?"

From the way people spoke about this man, Grey was beginning to wonder if Maxson shit gold bricks. Hero worship was always an interesting social phenomena, one the military was historically prone to in a much lesser way. The trick was in finding the balance between respect and reverence; the military usually preferred the former to the latter. Clearly something disjointed was happening with the Brotherhood. That or there was more than rads in the water.

"No further questions, sir."

"Then I suggest you head over to the command deck. Dismissed, Initiate."

Grey honestly had no idea where the command deck was, but she wasn't about to tell Kells that. _Too much pride_ , her father would say. What did he ever know though.

She opted to trace Danse's footsteps to the upper deck. A solider in full power amour swivelled with her advance, minigun in hand. He gave her a gesture of acknowledgement and pulled open the hatch.

Grey entered a red-hued chamber and watched her pale skin turn crimson. The interior was surprisingly warm and still. As the hatch sealed behind her, the exterior noise of engines and rotors turned to little more than a hum. She could see a brightly lit room ahead, bodies adorned in black and orange fatigues standing in perfect lines. She tiptoed around the lower command deck and dropped her duffle outside the door.

She could feel the anxiety and anticipation wash over her as she pressed in behind a group of soldiers. Neither emotion was hers. If anything, she felt rather numb to the experience, even her curiosity barely prickling her skin.

Dogmeat leaned against her right leg and she instinctively dropped her hand, running her fingers between his ears.

The bodies around her continued to thrum. Backs straight, hands clenched. Grey swept her gaze across them, shaved heads and undercuts, stern faces and highly held heads. All attentive, all waiting.

That's when she saw him.

"Brothers and Sisters, the road behind us has been long and fraught with difficulty. Each and every one of you has surpassed my expectations by rapidly facilitating our arrival in the Commonwealth. You have accomplished this amazing feat without a hint of purpose or direction, and, most impressively, without question. Now that the ship is in position, it is the time to reveal our purpose and our mission.

"Beneath the Commonwealth, there is a cancer known as the Institute, a malignant growth that needs to be _cut_ before it infects the surface. They are experimenting with dangerous technologies that could prove to be the world's undoing for the second time in recent history. The Institute Scientists have created a weapon that transcends the destructive nature of the atom bomb. They call their creation the 'synth', a robotic abomination of technology that is free-thinking and masquerades as a human being. This notion that a machine can be granted free will is not only offensive, but horribly dangerous. And like the atom, if it isn't harnessed properly, it has the potential of rendering us extinct as a species. _I_ am not prepared to allow the Institute to continue this line of experimentation. Therefore, the Institute and their synths are considered enemies of the Brotherhood of Steel, and should be dealt with swiftly and mercilessly.

"This campaign will be costly and many lives will be lost. But in the end, we will be saving humankind from its worst enemy... itself. Ad Victoriam!"

The Elder's words had barely left his mouth as the deck erupted in victory chants. The anticipation had turned to fervour, and Grey could feel it within them as they saluted and fought to return to their duties. They had a plan now, a purpose—a war. What more could a soldier want?

Except Grey felt none of that passion. She honestly wasn't sure what she felt. Some part of her wanted to be convinced—that more so spoke to the Elder's ability as an orator. He was charismatic and compelling, each word carefully chosen and enunciated just so. That impressed her more than she would admit. Even from that snippet, she could see why his soldiers referred him. There was brilliance and conviction there, but she couldn't fight the feeling that there was also naivety. Or was it zealotry?

She agreed the Institute was a blight, but that was because they held something of hers. Would she be as vindictive if they hadn't? That was difficult to tease out. She'd seen the damage they'd done, the replicas they'd left behind. She had also received her fair share of laser burns from their Gen 1s and 2s. But she struggled, morally, with the Gen 3 synths. They seemed human. They were human, depending on who you asked. And it seemed they were also enslaved, very few escaping to the surface, only to then face the harshness of the Commonwealth.

Grey felt herself instantly place her fingers against Deliverer's grip. She could see why the Railroad did what they did. She'd even considered helping them at one point, but only if they could help her. It became very clear that they could barely help themselves, however, which was why she told Deacon they needed to part ways.

Would the Brotherhood differentiate between synth Gens though? Would they differentiate between those liberated and enslaved? Between free-willed and programmed? She wanted to hope that yes, yes they would, but she also knew that military politics didn't allow for dialectics and grey areas. It had black and white, right and wrong, with no allowance for discourse and debate. Otherwise the army wouldn't function.

So what did all of this mean for Grey? Nothing, at least not yet. She had to remove herself from the problem, remove herself for the morality and the ethics. They didn't matter—not at this juncture. The priority hadn't changed, neither had the plan. Shaun was the goal, and his retrieval was the only acceptable outcome. She could think about the rest after he was back in her grasp.

As the last of the soldiers trickled from the room, Grey walked towards the Elder. Her had his back to her, hands resting on the railing. Downtown Boston sprawled out below them in all its wonder and senseless destruction.

She approached from his right side, ensuring she could be seen without having to get too close. With each step, the title of 'Elder' became more and more ironic. Every time Maxson's name had been mentioned, her mind had conjured the image of a sturdy man with salt and pepper hair, harsh lines carved into a seasoned face. During the address, she'd clocked him to be in his mid-to-late thirties, but the closer she got, the younger she realized he was. His face did have the harshness she envisioned, but it wasn't through age but scars. He was beautiful once, she realized, boyish beauty that had been ripped away with gashes and stitches and staples. He was still attractive, but it had been changed to something harder, older. She could see the perpetual furrow to his brow, the mental weight he held there. His brown eyes were also weathered, the look of someone who had seen too much, lost too much. She knew those eyes.

"I care about them, you know—the people of the Commonwealth."

The softness of his tone startled her, and she faltered.

Her instinct was to challenge him, to see how much depth his words actually had, but that approach wouldn't benefit her in the long run. It was a quick way to get herself desk duty or the post-war equivalent, if not a prompt dismissal.

"I can see that," she said carefully.

She looked out at the cityscape below, raider tarps littering the dilapidated skyscrapers, fires and explosions glinting between the structures along the eastern wharf. Streets crawling with Super Mutants, ghouls, raiders, and who knew what else. Frag mines underfoot, toxic waste bubbling to the surface of the Charles.

"They're playing with fire," she found herself saying, "and we need to save them."

"Exactly. I just hope we're here in time. I refuse to allow the mistakes of the past to be repeated."

"Don't worry," she lied. "I'm convinced."

The Elder pushed back off the railing, finally meeting her gaze.

"Paladin Danse's reports were quite clear regarding your feelings towards the Brotherhood. And he concludes that you'd be an asset to us. Seeing as he's one of my most respected field officers, you couldn't get a better recommendation. Therefore, from this moment forward, I'm granting you the rank of Knight. And, befitting your title, we're granting you a suit of power armour to protect you on the field of battle. Wear it with pride."

Grey hated power armour, the mere sight of it sending chills down her spine. It conjured a strange mix of memories, none of which were pleasant. But she knew this was the Brotherhood's way, their sign of belonging and authority. She could respect that. And, most likely, she'd need that authority in the days to come.

"I'll do my best to live up to it."

"I'm certain that you will," he said, tone gentle. "In any event, once you're finished becoming familiar with the Prydwen and my staff, report to the Flight Deck at zero-six-hundred hours tomorrow for your new orders. Welcome aboard the Prydwen, soldier."

He pressed a fist to his chest and bowed his head ever-so slightly . "Make us proud."

And for a split second, she actually wanted to. But as she turned from him and collected herself, she realized how absurd the notion was. Where did that impulse even come from? Some boy with a beard speaks to her nicely and she wants to fly their flag?

 _Get a hold of yourself, Grey. Christ._

Maybe there was something in the water, she decided. Or the air.


	7. If Only You Knew

CHAPTER 7  
If Only You Knew

Grey watched the Sergeant from the observation room, thinking her plan through. _Plan_. That was an ambitious misnomer. Major Cantrell clearly had an idea of how she should proceed, but Grey couldn't shake the feeling there was more going on that she wasn't privy to. Well, that was a given. She was only told what her superiors thought she needed to know; whatever made the case go away or saved the Army some face. It wasn't that simple though this time. There was likely something greater at play, something outside the usual rigmarole. She just had no idea _what_.

She'd left the Sergeant waiting in Interrogation for over twenty minutes and he still looked no more disconcerted than when he was first escorted in. He sat with good but unstrained posture, hands folded on the table before him. His eyes casually wandered throughout the stark white room, drifting across the one-way glass. Most either avoided the glass or stared it down. She couldn't tell if the man actually was as unfazed as he appeared or if his behavioural control was just that good. Either option was intriguing but also left her in an unsure place. She preferred it when there was an obvious vulnerability she could exploit.

Like his personnel file, the Sergeant's behaviour gave her little to work with. That frustrated her, but again suggested that this case was more than what it seemed. Cantrell's interest didn't seem personal, signalling that pressure was coming down on him from above. And while the average citizen might have thought that attempted murder was a rarity in the Army, Grey had already prosecuted several such cases that year with zero fanfare. It happened, especially as political tensions rose and military demands increased. So why was this case special? The victim, Corporal James, did not seem to be anyone of particular note; neither did the accused, Specialist Walsh. It made no sense, at least not with the information she had.

 _Time to get some more then,_ she decided.

Grey entered the interview room at a stride. She pulled the chair out across from the Sergeant in one swift motion, allowing it to scrape across the floor, shattering the silence. She slapped her file folders on the table and turned on the holotape recorder. The machine crackled as she situated herself, folding her skirt beneath her and stretching her neck as they locked eyes.

His blue eyes lightened as he looked at her, posture unchanged. The smallest of muscles moved along his jaw, corners of his mouth lifting. Not exactly the response she was looking for.

"Thank-you for agreeing to meet with me on such short notice, Sergeant Anders—"

"Nate," he interjected with a smile.

Grey watched as he flashed his teeth, this clearly having worked for him before. What irritated her was that his behaviour didn't seem unnatural or forced. It wasn't that he played the handsome, charming soldier-next-door—he likely was that person. He was privileged enough to _be_ that person, her mother would lecture. There was probably some truth to that, but Grey also sensed that this man was a tad more complex than good looks and an American-as-apple-pie persona.

"I'd prefer we abide by protocol and procedure, Sergeant, which will be integral at trial, if it comes to that. A man with your service history should understand the value in that, no?" It wasn't a question.

He leaned back in his chair. "So you've read up on me. See anything interesting, Lieutenant?" Another flash of teeth, voice playful and low. "Anything you like?"

"It's more what I'm not seeing that has me interested, Sergeant." She pulled one of the folders from her pile and flipped it open. "In the initial canvas, investigators questioned all personnel stationed at or visiting the base at the time of the offence. Your name, as you can see, is not on this list, which is intriguing for two reasons. One: the rest of your platoon _was_ stationed at the base at this time. And two: you've come forward as a witness to a crime that, according to these records, you couldn't have witnessed. Which leaves my department—and me—in a bit of a tricky situation, as you may be able to imagine.

"This leads me to conclude that one of two things are happening here: either our evidence is flawed, which raises a multitude of new concerns, or you're intentionally interfering with an ongoing investigation."

She leaned back in her chair, matching his bearing. "Considering the security measures currently employed at the base, your odds aren't looking too good. That, and a charge of perverting the course of justice? That isn't exactly the kind of blemish an officer of your standing wants tainting his service record."

His eyes fluttered down to the list and then back to her face. This was where she expected his veneer to rupture—this was where it always ruptured. But instead his smile deepened to something sultry. He rested a single finger over his lips, fingertip tracing the bottom edge so slightly.

"Have dinner with me."

Grey stared. "Excuse me?"

He leaned into the table, narrowing the space between then. "Have dinner with me. Tonight, on the pier."

Grey immediately shut off the recorder.

"What are you playing at?"

"I could ask you the same thing, Lieutenant."

She furrowed her brow. "You've lost me."

"Let's see. You kept me waiting for—what—a half hour? Likely watching from the other side of that glass, seeing how I may react under pressure. Your entrance, the chair—that was a good move. Nothing like offensive sound to activate the amygdala, signal a stress response to the body. Then there's your attire: hair pulled back tight, shirt buttoned to the collar, and I'm guessing those glasses are for show? Subtle cues to show you're in a position of authority and not to be seen as a desirable object. But your questioning and phrasing—that was where you shone. Building me up, just to tear me down. And the thinly veiled threats? Beautiful."

He leaned back and crossed his arms. "So how about we cut the BS, acknowledge we both know how to play this game, and you agree to come to dinner with me."

Grey pursed her lips as she thought. She hadn't expected that. Logic said she needed to either regain control or shut him down. She already had enough to give him a light slap on the wrist. The holotape recording was evidence enough if Cantrell decided to give her hell. His threat was for her screwing it up. This wasn't a screw up—it was likely a victory, or would be to Cantrell. She could easily sell it as her weeding out falsities and narrowing down the investigation to something fruitful.

That was logic, but then there was instinct. Something had been wrong with this case from the beginning, something that her superiors didn't want known. It wasn't as simple as an attempted murder, not that that was ever simple, but there was something more dangerous or damaging at stake. Whatever it was, she wanted to know. And if she had to tangle with Sergeant Anders to get to it? Fine, she'd take that risk. Whatever happened, she could take care of herself. And if he was dead weight? She'd cut him loose.

"8pm, Umberto's."

His eyes lit up. "I'll pick you up at—"

"No, you won't."

She ejected the tape and slid it into her folders.

"Just so we're clear, this is the only chance you'll be afforded."

He smiled. "Yes, ma'am."

"And don't call me ma'am."

She didn't wait for his retort and let the door slam behind her.

—

Grey absently gazed out the cab's window as it wove down Atlantic Avenue, wheels spitting muck up toward the glass. Neon lights reflected in the watery sheen painting the roads, sidewalks a mix of fresh snow, road salt, and blackened slush. Christmas lights hung from several of the shops, a mix of plastic greenery and carcinogenic glitter sitting in windows. For Grey it was an insipid time of year, one rife with distasteful social obligations. Acknowledging what remained of her miserable family, shelling out money to ungrateful coworkers, attending parties ripe with uncomfortable dynamics and shallow words—she pushed the thoughts from her mind before her blood pressure spiked.

"Any plans for the New Year, miss?" the cabbie asked.

He was a shorter man, slightly gruff, ginger stubble lining his lower jowls.

"May visit some family in New York," she murmured.

"Ah, New Yorker, are you?"

 _Not really_ , she thought.

"Me, never left Boston. Why bother? We got the same shit here they got everywhere else, am I right?"

"Fair enough."

"See, exactly. Good to have some sensible minded people in my cab for once. I was telling my buddy Johnny the other day…"

He continued to prattle on and Grey haphazardly listened, feeding him the right amount of _mm-hm's_ and _ah's_ to keep him going. She preferred when others talked. Saved her from having to talk about herself. Also saved her from having to care. Most people only needed the slightest of active listening signals to feel validated. Grey was adept enough to provide them without having to actually process what was being said. Win-win, really.

She passed him a $50 tip as they pulled up in front of the golden glow of Umberto's. Ten years ago, $50 could have bought her a mediocre three-course meal. Now she'd be lucky if it bought her a coffee and a bagel.

She slid from the cab and crossed the salted sidewalk, careful not to slip in her black patent stilettos. As she stepped into the warmth of Umberto's, the December cold melted from her bones. A waiter slipped her coat from her shoulders and led her to the host.

A man in his mid-forties gave her a single glance and a nod to follow, clearly too astute to ask for something as trivial as a name. He guided her through a throng of tables, bodies beautifully clothed and drenched in candlelight, whispers escaping pouted lips. Jazz piano drifted across the restaurant, tempo slow and keys lightly struck.

She'd fallen in love with Umberto's during her first year of law school. Some boy had invited her there for dinner, hoping to impress her. Grey knew he had more money than sense, and, as he never explicitly asked her on a date, she felt no remorse in joining him, letting him pay, and then saying farewell for the night with a wave of her hand. It was all about the semantics. That, and she owed him nothing.

For Grey, Umberto's was the perfect blend of culinary excellence and atmosphere. Beautiful marble and gold finishings, red velvet chairs, and hushed golden lights. Live jazz always played, sometimes a mix of piano and percussion, but most nights just a solo pianist. That was her favourite, the sound bringing her back to Sunday afternoons in the study, her mother lounging by the window with a book, hair a mess, Dave Brubeck playing on the stereo. And then there was the food. Her mouth watered as she passed a table with steamed muscles marinating in white wine sauce.

She spotted Sergeant Anders first, chestnut brown hair slicked back, strong jaw freshly shaved. He was frowning at the wine list; she swallowed a laugh. She lightly plucked it from his hands as she approached. She watched the frustration melt from his face as he looked up at her and her stomach knotted.

She pushed the smile from her lips as the host helped her to her seat. She handed him the menu.

"A bottle of the Chianti, thanks."

As the host gave them the evening spiel, she discretely unclipped her clutch and pressed her fingers against the metallic box concealed within. She felt along the edges, counting the indents and picturing the device in her mind. Third button from the left. Her index finger hovered.

"So," he said as the host departed. His brilliant opening line, sitting stagnantly in the air. His eyes washed over her again, pupils encompassing the blue of his irises. That all-American smile played along his face.

"When I suggested the pier, I was thinking more Micky's Diner, but I'm sure this place is comparable."

She decided his failed attempt at humour didn't warrant a response.

"To business then. Or would you like to check if I'm wearing a wire first?" He gave a devilish grin. "I'd be happy to take off my shirt. I'm sure the governor's wife to our right wouldn't mind."

He fingered the top button of his dress shirt in jest.

"No need for that, Sergeant."

"So you trust me then?"

She lifted the audio jammer from her purse and gently laid it on the table, clicking it on.

"As a rule, I trust no one. Don't take it personally."

He gave a short laugh. "I guess the rumours about you are true then."

"They probably are."

He gave her another look, this one more intrigued than sultry. "You're a fascinating woman, Lieutenant. I'd accuse you of playing hard to get, but I doubt it's that superficial. Even the emotionally stunted Lieutenant Mitchell wasn't immune to my charms."

A waiter arrived then, bottle of red wrapped in white cloth and presented for Grey's inspection. He opened it and passed her the cork, the colour rich and scent sweet. He poured a sip into her glass and she slowly swirled it before bringing it to her lips, earthy notes spilling onto her tongue. She gave the waiter a nod and he filled both their glasses.

Sergeant Anders lifted his before him, eyeing the liquid. "It was easy enough to persuade Mitchell to request that her boss allocate a second prosecutor to the case. Someone capable of structuring my evidence, someone to assist Mitchell with the arduous task of getting a conviction." He took a sip of the wine. "See, Mitchell wasn't really a viable option. Wed to the job is an understatement. Like many in our line of work, it eventually isn't a job anymore: it's a lifestyle, maybe even a family. Something we're loyal to, that we'd defend to our last breath. But, somewhere along that way, we lose our sense of self, and a threat to the institution is a threat to us all. So we let little discretions go unpunished, all for the sake of the institution. We ignore signs of corruption. 'If it happens, it happens for a reason', we tell ourselves. 'It's for the greater good.'" He grimaced. "What a joke."

"And what makes you think I'm any different from Mitchell?"

He said, "You're a bit of a known quantity in the Massachusetts office. Ruthless, cold, calculating. People also tend to remember the twenty-something five-foot-eleven lawyer who destroyed their military careers, so you also have a fair share of enemies, in case you didn't know."

"Lucky me. Still doesn't answer my question."

"Patience," he said lightly, taking another swig. "Thing is, on the surface you come across much like your superiors: preoccupied with appearances, percentages, and outcomes. Cover up the incident before it snowballs, cut the malignant growth before it disfigures the troops. But then there was the Avery case. Neatly packaged by the CID, just waiting for a guilty verdict, except you didn't follow through."

Grey knit her brow. "Wrong. I got a conviction."

"For conspiracy to sell military intelligence, not conspiracy to transport illegal goods, which was the original charge. You ignored the CID's evidence and went after a pipe-dream. Which is exactly what I need."

"If you need a pipe dream, they're a dime a dozen these days. You don't need my help to find one."

He shook his head. "No, I need your investigative skills. And I need someone willing to look past the obvious. Someone who isn't afraid of pissing off the wrong people, or, better yet, someone crafty enough to avoid pissing them off all together. Someone to help me get to the bottom of this."

"And when you say the 'wrong people', you mean Major Cantrell, I'm guessing."

He merely shrugged in response.

"Why not approach some doe-eyed CID officer then if you want investigative skills? 'Investigation' is literally in their job title."

"Because I need someone who can take this to the end. Someone high enough up the food chain that they have resources and clout, not just smarts."

 _Fair enough_ , Grey thought. The Criminal Investigation Division's findings were ultimately reported back to the accused's commanding officer or passed along to JAG Corps for prosecution.

"So what's the _this_ you want me to get to the bottom of?"

He gave her an apprehensive look and she sighed. She knew that look and it always came after the canary had already started to sing.

"You've already told me too much, Sergeant. You're long past the point of no return. Either I like what I hear and we continue to have this conversation, or I leave and we both pretend we never spoke." She shook the audio jammer. "No evidence, remember?"

He considered her before draining his wine glass in a single, swift motion. They were going to need another bottle soon. She poured him another glass.

"What do you know about my relationship to Specialist Walsh?" he asked.

"You both serve in Fox Company and have for a number of years. Beyond that, little."

"And what of Corporal James?"

"You both serve in the Second Battalion but in different companies, which is also the only connection we've made between Walsh and James."

"I thought as much." He leaned back, brow furrowing. "The connection's a bit deeper than that. From 2072 to 74, Walsh and I both served in the same squad, and so did Corporal James. Except back then he wasn't a Corporal, just a Private First Class."

Grey's eye twitched and she realized she was frowning. "There is no record of Walsh and James having ever served together. Nor is there any record of you serving alongside Walsh, at least not at the squadron level. Where did you serve?"

"Anchorage mostly. A few months in Shantou in 2074. By 2073, I was their CO, so I knew these men, Lieutenant. Knew them _well,_ or so I'd like to think." He shook his head. "James used to snore so loud, we nicknamed him 'The Chainsaw'. Walsh even made him a birthday card one year while we were on the frontline. With nothing more than lined paper and charcoal, he made the damned thing look like a chainsaw blade. We got enough laughs out of that to last us to Thanksgiving."

"Were you covert or…?"

"No more or less than any squad in Fox Company."

"And is the squad still active?"

He shook his head. "Decommissioned in 2074. No particular reason why. Our skill sets were diverse and we were needed in different areas. James got his promotion around the same time and he moved to logistics. Walsh moved to demolitions, and I transferred to another ground combat unit. Walsh and I would still meet up for drinks occasionally when we both banked some leave around the same time—he's got family in the Commonwealth—but that was it."

 _Too convenient_ was Grey's first thought, but she kept that to herself.

"So where does your record say you served from 2072 to 2074?"

"You tell me, Lieutenant."

She'd need to check that. "I'm going to need a list of names, the other soldiers in your unit, and your deployment locations and times, to the best of your memory."

His eyes lit up. "So you'll help me?"

"I'll look into your claims— _off_ the record," she clarified. "But I'm going to need more from you than your word to corroborate your story. Any letters, photographs—"

He pulled something white from his pocket and flicked it across the table. Grey picked up the folded paper to reveal a tattered black and white photograph. Seven men and one woman stood in front of a battered _Welcome to Anchorage_ sign, the "welcome" all but illegible due to bullet holes and striations. Faces beamed at the camera. Army fatigues and combat armour decorated their closely huddled bodies, arms thrown around one another with casual ease. She spotted the Sergeant first, hair shorter, buzzed back to the skull. A woman stood next to him, her head tilted to the left, practically buried in Specialist Walsh's neck. Walsh wasn't looking at her though. His head was also tilted to the left, eyes smiling so deeply they were nearly closed. Corporal James mirrored Walsh's posture, their foreheads all but touching, laughter so evident Grey could practically hear it emanate from the photograph. She turned it over, observing the handwritten note on the back.

 _Anchorage, Alaska. February 17, 2074. PV2 Dawes, PFC Marquez, PFC James, PFC Walsh, SPC Blake, SGT Anders, CPL Kolinsky, and PV2 Tanaka._

Grey knew that sign was no longer there. Lost in a bombing twelve months earlier, in December 1974. She'd still need more evidence to establish the exact timeline, but this proved the men definitely knew one another. The official records were wrong then; likely tampered with. Tampered with by Army staff. She fought the grin pulling at her face.

"I need to know what happened to my men, Lieutenant."

She looked up and could see the strain in the Sergeant's eyes. She wouldn't presume to understand the bonds servicemen formed, but she knew they were there. They literally fought and died for one another, dragging corpses across active war zones just to ensure a family they'd never met could bury their loved ones. No, she couldn't understand that, but she could respect it.

She smirked as she tucked the photograph into her clutch. "And to think Cantrell wanted me to fuck the intel out of you."

The Sergeant's eyes widened before he caught himself, strain melting away. "Well, if I'd known that, I might have held back a little longer."

He unfurled his fist and gently caressed the back of her hand with his index finger. "I'm sure I can think of something more to divulge if you apply the right pressures."

She simpered before pulling her hand away. "I'm sure there are plenty of ladies lingering around outside who would be more than happy to scratch any itch you have, Sergeant. As for us, our business is presently concluded, but we still have appearances to keep up. So let's pretend to have a nice, simple dinner, hm, providing you can keep your hands to yourself for an hour."

She picked up the audio jammer and returned it to her clutch.

"It's 'Nate' if we're going to continue this charade, Lieutenant."

"Fine," she shrugged.

"And I should call you…?"

She fixed him a hard look.

He recoiled with a smirk. "Grey it is then."

—

Grey was the slightest bit buzzed as she fumbled with the lock to her condo. Too much wine, even with the sea bass risotto and strawberry and fig panna cotta. She nearly moaned just thinking about the meal, the pleasured memories alone justifying the $600 price tag.

Tumblers finally clicking into place, Grey pressed her weight against the door, simultaneously slipping off her stilettos and drifting into her condo. She flicked her clutch onto the hallway vanity and reached for the light switch but caught herself as she looked ahead into the darkness of the lounge.

A figure stood by the balcony door with his back to her, body outlined by the hushed lights of the cityscape below. Even in the dark, she could see the holster peeking out from beneath his waist-length jacket.

She carefully laid her keys on the table and nudged the door closed behind her.

"It's a little late for an evening stroll," she murmured.

"Don't be a smartass, girl."

Grey stiffened, blood cooling. "I'm not due to report in for another two weeks. So either something's gone wrong or you need something from me."

He didn't reply.

Grey sighed. "I'm tired and I'm not in the mood. Tell me which, so I can go to sl—"

"You need to stay away from Nathaniel Anders."

"May I ask why?"

The figure turned, dark brow furrowed.

"You can stare me down all you want," she said sternly, "but you'll find I don't crumble so easy. You want me to stay away from Sergeant Anders? Fine. But I need to know why. Otherwise, you need to let me run with this. We may finally have something—"

"It's not a part of the mission."

 _Fuck the mission_ , she wanted to spit, but caught herself. "I know that, but we may be onto something here, and I'd appreciate it if Command let me run with it, see if it gives us an edge."

" _We_?"

"I," she stressed. " _I_ may be onto something."

He walked towards her then and she steeled herself. Without her heels, he loomed above her, dark features sharp and expression stern. He reached for her and she fought not to flinch. Cold, calloused fingers ran across the top of her brow, pushing strands of silver hair from her eyes. He watched her closely, hazel eyes scrolling her face, drinking her in.

"You're going to compromise yourself."

She leaned into his hand, letting it cup her face, palm flirting with her mouth. She turned, lips laying a gentle kiss into his calloused flesh. She could smell the gunshot residue and forced herself not to recoil. Her stomach twisted as she looked up at him through mascara-clad lashes, thankful the alcohol was dilating her pupils. She gingerly rested her hand atop his, fingers entwining. She let her face tell him what he wanted to see, and she could feel his body stiffen against hers, a mix of confusion and lust.

"I'll be fine as long as I have you watching my back," she whispered against his skin. "You know I can do this."

He breathed her in and she could sense the tension strumming beneath his skin. She nuzzled his palm, closing her eyes.

"One month," he said. "That's it."

She stood still as he slide around her and out the door. She only allowed herself to exhale as she felt the lock click back into place. She listened until his footsteps disappeared down the hall, masked by the _ding_ of the arriving elevator. She counted to ten, steadying herself. As she reached the final count, she bolted from her place and tore into the bathroom, lifting the toilet seat just as vomit sprayed from her mouth.

She wretched until nothing remained, not even tears able to flow from her eyes.

She needed to figure this out. Her job, her cover, the mission, the James case. Nate.

Collapsing to the floor, she brought her knees to her chest and buried her face. She was going to get herself killed if she wasn't careful. She just wasn't sure who'd be the one pulling the trigger. They'd tell her she did it to herself, that she was the one holding the gun. She probably was on some level. Too ambitious, too angry, too full of spite. If only her mother could see her now. Would she be proud or mortified, or a strange mix of both?

Grey looked up at the ceiling, clumps of mascara obscuring her vision.

If only she knew.


	8. Lies

**CHAPTER 8**  
Lies

Grey woke to the still of the Prydwen, its gentle hum all but white noise. She listened for sounds of life, only hearing the faint breaths of the soldiers sleeping next to her, an occasional snore several cots down. She rolled onto her side, legs pressing against Dogmeat's belly. Heat radiated from his fur.

She twisted her wrist and examined her Pip-Boy. _3:47 AM._

Grey pressed her eyes closed, but sleep didn't come. It rarely did.

Silently she slid from the bed, gently lifting her weight from the springs such that they didn't creak. Not silently enough for Dogmeat, though, who leapt from the bed with her departure. She tapped her leg twice with her fingers, beckoning for him to follow.

They crept to the bow of the ship, traipsing down metal staircases and through narrow passages. The airship was still a bit of a maze to her even after her day of exploration and introductions. But she'd remembered this place.

Ducking through an alcove, the smell of Abraxo smacked her in the face. She gave a smile, the chlorine-like scent bringing her back to childhood swimming lessons and summers at her parent's country club. Sunshine and flip-flops, children running on wooden docks, hair reeking of chemicals as it whipped back into her face.

Grey pulled off her combat boots as she walked into the change room. She threw them in an empty locker and quickly stripped off her Vault 111 jumpsuit and underwear. She fingered a hole in the jumpsuit. A bullet wound she'd received in Concord, less than twenty-four hours after leaving the Vault. One of the raiders had caught her by surprise as she'd entered the Museum of Freedom, his first shot grazing her side and his second piercing her upper arm.

She'd never been shot before. The pain had been enough to blur her vision. If it hadn't been for the latent effects of the cryo—her nerves misfiring and pain receptors somewhat numbed—she would have blacked out. Instead she'd managed to pick off five raiders with her 10mm before finding Preston and having him tend to her wounds.

She pressed her fingers against the indent in her upper arm. A through and through. The skin still showed the faintest ripple of a scar. Stimpaks were excellent for triage, but poor for vanity. They'd kept her alive, accelerating cell growth and tissue regeneration, but they were a crude instrument. Her skin now told the tale of their workings: faint white lines along her forearms from a switchblade-wielding chem addict she'd encountered on her way to Goodneighbor, puckered skin along her collarbones from stray shotgun pellets, tough and whirled flesh under her right arm from an Institute laser round when she and Deacon infiltrated the Switchboard. So much damage in so little time.

She let the thought melt away as she stepped into the showers. She flinched as a blast of cold water hit her, but it quickly warmed and her legs all but turned to jelly. She hadn't felt hot water since the morning the bombs dropped. She closed her eyes and relished in the feeling of it massage into her scalp and run down her back. She felt the weeks of dirt and grime lift from her skin, pores tingling with the reprieve. She opened her eyes to the streams of greyish-brown water coursing into the drain underfoot. Grime and sweat and ash and blood, all washed away.

She wasn't sure how long she stood there, watching the water until it flowed clear. As the last of the hot water drained from the nozzle, she walked through a wall of steam to the sinks. Her blurred figure stood before her, reflection muted and lost. She slid a hand over the mirror, condensation turning to droplets and slithering down her arm.

She didn't recognize the face looking back at her. Not at first.

Dark circles surrounded her almond-shaped eyes, the green of her irises faded and flat. Burst blood vessels turned her vitreous into a spindled mess of red. Her ivory face was splattered with freckles and sunburn, the skin angry and dry. Her lips were chapped, a strange mix of pink and grey. There was a split running from her bottom lip nearly down to her chin. She hadn't felt it—still couldn't, even as she ran her tongue over it. Her hair hung in uneven layers and knots, split ends dangling before her eyes, soaked strands clinging to her collarbones and breasts. A mix of black and silver roots blossomed from her flaky scalp, the silver bleeding into bleached, ruined hair.

 _How unsightly_ , she thought, but any imagined feelings of disgust never came. She was numb to it. She might have cared once—she had, once. Image and attractiveness had been as important to her as any mental finesse. She could be cunning and calculated, but she recognized that without her looks, her successes and manipulations would have been fewer. Pre-war society attributed kinder traits to attractive people, perceived them as more caring, more virtuous, more compelling. Grey had never been stunning, but she was attractive enough. She knew how to flatter her features, how to take care of herself, how to dress.

All those tricks were useless now. Wasterlanders didn't care for flawless skin and defined brows. Even basic hygiene wasn't a deal breaker anymore. All that mattered now was her brawn and her brain. The rest was distraction and conceit. The only thing a pretty mouth would get her was the wrong kind of attention, the kind that saw her as vulnerable, an easy target. And she wasn't that.

Grey opened the medical cabinet and grabbed a pair of bandage scissors. They were awkward and blunted, but they worked well enough as she fought her way through the knots and tangled mess. As the last strands fell, Grey discarded the scissors, letting them clatter to the floor. She gripped the sink with both hands as she regarded her handiwork.

She used to rely on her hair to convey a certain image, usually one of professionalism. She'd always thought long hair softened her features, her fringe giving her face a more sultry look, while her straightened black locks had a certain severity to it. _Look but don't touch._

That was gone now, locks cut back to a few inches from her scalp. What remained of her hair was a mess of grey and black roots, the ends holding remnants of pre-war dye. Her face looked harsher almost. More angular with her high cheekbones and prominent v-line jaw. She looked like Jasper, she realized—like her brother.

Dogmeat raced after her as she left the head, following her back up the staircases which seemed to crisscross and zag. Grey stretched her shoulders with each step, her new orange flight suit stiff and foreign. Proctor Teagan had told her it had a low-level ballistic weave, but she wasn't willing to test that. Her Vault jumpsuit technically did, too—a gift from Tinker Tom after she ran an op for P.A.M.—but her injuries taught her not to confuse a weave with kevlar.

She found herself in Senior Scribe Neriah's petshop of horrors, the lab strangely empty aside from the sleeping molerats. Grey approached the Gen 1 synth remains assembled on a gurney, tracing the wires and connections with her fingers. Its dead eyes stared at the nothingness above her, half its jaw cracked and missing. There was no rubber on his joints; just plastic and metal. She thought of Nick then, strapped to the gurney, skin removed, glowing eyes dead.

She recoiled, nearly stumbling into a surgical tray.

Grey grabbed its edges, instruments clattering. Only as she stood still did she feel her pulse race. She retreated to the railing and leaned over it. The feel of the cool metal against her hands calmed her. It grounded her in a way, giving her something tangible, something real to hold.

She felt Dogmeat against her side before she heard his gentle whine. He'd only lean against her slightly, just enough to let her know he was there. She'd never been much of a pet person. Pets weren't conducive to her parent's way of living. They took too many business trips, hosted too many house parties. And Grey and Jasper experienced too many months of being packed up and shipped off to summer camps, ski lodges, or distant relatives' European villas to care for an animal. She'd probably wanted a dog at some point in her childhood, but that notion was likely squashed before it took root. _Be practical, darling,_ her father would say. _Do you really want those additional responsibilities?_ He was always like that, framing his disproval as a question for her to ponder and answer.

Nate had had a dog, some mutt he'd apparently rescued in Anchorage a few years before they'd met. The dog had a fractured life after his rescue, being caretaken by Nate's relatives and friends every time Nate was deployed. Nate had brought the dog into their home when they moved to Sanctuary Hills, but he never settled. He was always running away, not to anywhere in particular—just away from them. It was always a cycle of departure, missing signs and posters, return, and repeat. The only feeling she'd had for the animal was distain. And then one day, after Shaun's birth, the mutt never came back. If it hadn't been for that empty dog bowl in her kitchen, she would have forgotten about him entirely.

She didn't feel like that about Dogmeat. How she felt about him was hard to quantify, but whatever kind of relationship they had, it worked. For Grey, that was enough.

She dropped her hand to scratch between his ears and noticed his tail was wagging. She followed his line of sight to the power armour workstations below. Leaning over the rail, she first spotted the sparks. Twisting her head, she got a better view of a figure tinkering with a set of power armour. _Her_ set. She narrowed her gaze, watching the person grind down some of the metal in the left leg.

 _What are you doing?_ she thought. Was she being sabotaged? No, she hadn't interacted enough with anyone to draw that type of ire. Daniels and Rhys were still back in Cambridge as far as she knew.

The figure was too large to be a woman, but that was all she could deduce from her position. She quickly slipped away from the rail, tapping her leg and having Dogmeat race after her. She wove through metal containers and past the chalk drawings of some kids before slinking down the stairs, careful not to tread too heavily.

As she reached the primary deck, only a few metres sat between her and the saboteur. He was wearing an orange flight suit, like her, but the suit was only drawn to his hips, arms tied around his waist. A crisp white undershirt stretched over a broad chest laced with muscles. She watched his arms work, sweat glistening over his biceps. His face was hidden behind a welding mask.

She observed him for a bit longer, his hands now tinkering with her suit's shocks. Was that the plan then? Let her attempt a jump and break her legs when the suit's shocks didn't engage? She furrowed her brow and reached for her holster. Only to realize it was under her bed with the rest of her gear. She whispered an oath. She needed a weapon, a wrench or a—

Dogmeat leapt from their hiding spot, bolting toward the saboteur. Grey lunged after him but he slipped through her fingers. She sunk back against the wall, watching as the dog bound toward the man and skid to a stop before her suit. She saw the man flinch and immediately drop a screwdriver. The clang of metal echoed throughout the Prydwen, resulting in a forceful _shh_ from the floor above.

The man dropped to his knee and reached out to Dogmeat, the German Shepherd excitedly bobbing his head against the man's hand. Only when the dog jumped towards his face, tongue flailing, did the man tilt back his mask.

A wave a calm washed over Grey.

 _Asshole dog_ , she thought as she rose from her spot and entered the workshop. With her sounding footsteps, Dogmeat leapt from Danse and bound to Grey's side. She raised a brow at him as he collided with her leg, puppy-dog eyes begging for another pet. She ran her fingers through his fur.

As Danse rose to his feet, Grey again took in the sight of the Paladin without his armour. His arms and neck shone with sweat and his broadness continued to surprise her. His skin was cleaner, face freshly shaven, only the faintest hint of stubble shadowing his jaw. His hair had been trimmed, but it still held some volume and length. His hazel eyes momentarily widened as he spotted her, thick brows lifting. She watched the scar tissue in his brow stretch, and began to notice the other scars lining his face. Faint discolouring along his cheekbones, a pale line carved through his stubble.

She met his gaze. "Paladin."

"Knight."

He looked away quickly and cleared his throat. "I was just inspecting your—"

Another _shh_ hissed from above, this one more forceful and distinct. A series of sounding bed springs and tossing bodies accompanied it. Danse cast a glare to the deck above, brow furrowed with annoyance. Grey's lips twitched as she fought the urge to grin.

Danse removed his welding mask and gently laid it on a toolbox. He gave her a nod and motioned for her to follow. She did so tentatively, Dogmeat traipsing along beside her. Danse led her toward the bow, passing through the empty mess hall and past the medbay and archives. Emmett, Quinlan's cat, watched with one eye open as they past Quinlan's desk. His attention immediately shifted to Dogmeat, but the cat showed no sign of alarm. Grey could feel the pause in Dogmeat's step and quickly looped a finger through his collar, guiding him past.

She followed Danse to a stairwell, her calves stinging in protest as they ascended flight after flight. The lighting darkened, only the occasional security lamp defining their way. Grey instantly grabbed the railing, not trusting herself to stay upright. As she reached the top, she saw Danse's silhouette near a single unmarked bulkhead door. He popped the lock, a hiss of air escaping, and motioned her through before her eyes could adjust. For an instant, she thought she felt the brush of the Paladin's hand against the small of her back, but then it was gone. Replaced.

Wind whip against her face, dragging the smell of Boston's harbour up into her nose. Her eyes finally adjusted to the midnight-cast city before her with its graveyard of skyscrapers and the faintest flecks of fires and electricity in the distance. She hated it, she realized, the Boston ruins and the haunting memory of what it had once been, what it had once held for her. But she'd never seen it so still before. A city, unmoving. Asleep.

"You get used to it, eventually."

Grey looked to her left, watching as the Paladin leaned back against the railing, arms crossed against his chest. He wasn't looking at her though, his gaze also fixed on the ruins below.

"Used to what?"

"Sleeping on the Prydwen."

She doubted that. Grey was always weary of sleeping in proximity to others. Their smells and their noises and their heat—she hated it. She knew many found comfort in numbers, but she found it unnerving. If anything, it made her feel vulnerable.

 _That's because you aren't a soldier_ , Nate would say. She could hear him in her head, words whispered against the soft flesh of her neck as they'd lie in bed. He'd wrap his arms around her, pinning her to the sheets, pulling her close. It took everything in her not to lash out and push him away. She'd try to roll away, try to slip from his hold as they slept. For him, closeness was a comfort. For her, it was harrowing. But only because she knew what would happen when his nightmares took hold. Or was that just her excuse?

Grey ran her fingers through what remained of her hair, the last bits of moisture drying in the breeze. She threw her memories of Nate aside, instead focusing on the Paladin before her.

"What's your excuse then?"

She hadn't been the only one awake on the Prydwen at 4 AM after all.

She saw him tense. His body language told her he wouldn't answer, not truthfully at least. She opted to look away, giving him what privacy she could. No one liked having their discomfort on display.

"I've never needed much rest," he lied.

She gave a nod, unsure he could even see it.

"How'd it go with Elder Maxson earlier?" A welcome change of topic.

It was a good question though. She hadn't tried to think on it. She'd gotten too caught up in exploration, introductions, and acquiring new gear. That was her excuse anyway. How had it gone with Maxson? She didn't have a point of reference to properly assess that. How did things usually go with him? Was there always that level of intensity, that sense of quiet and passion and fervour and rage? Too much rode on the outcome. Her need for Maxson to trust her, her need for him to confide in her. Her need for him to not to launch an offensive on the Institute before she found Shaun. Before she reclaimed him.

"Maxson seems so young, compared to everyone else," she found herself saying. "You're... okay with that?"

"Don't let his age fool you," Danse said, tone terse. "Maxson's a brilliant tactician, a formidable warrior, and possesses an idealistic vision for the future of the Brotherhood. I'd follow him anywhere, without question."

Grey was slightly taken aback by that. "Why are you so confident in his abilities?"

"A decade ago, the Brotherhood had almost gone completely astray. The Elder before Maxson sent us down a path that was leading nowhere. He was more concerned about charity than preservation of technology. But when Maxson took over he single-handedly reprioritized the Brotherhood from the ground up and put us back on the path to glory. This ship and his crew are a testament to his leadership."

Grey thought back to the two wasterlanders she'd overheard in the Third Rail less than three days ago. Two conflicting views of the Brotherhood, one dated and one newer—scavengers versus an army. She struggled to see how any twenty-something-year-old could accomplish that level of growth and reform, but maybe that was pre-war bias. Wastelanders seemed to live harder and faster, much like people had in Grey's great-great grandmother's time. That, and she'd seen the command with which the Elder had spoken. If his actions held even half that conviction, perhaps it was possible.

"He's a very dedicated man," she said carefully. "It sounds like he stands behind everything he's saying."

"Of course he does. How could he afford not to?"

 _Fair point_ , Grey thought.

"I just hope you appreciate how much of a chance I'm taking, bringing you into the fold this quickly." He shifted his stance, biceps tensing. "Not to put too fine a point on it, but if you screw up, we go down together."

"So what's all this about you being my sponsor?" Grey asked.

"Elder Maxson is understandably particular when it comes to new recruits. He believes, in order to keep the Brotherhood strong, we have to bond as brothers." He lifted his gaze, the whites of his eyes shimmering in the near-dark. "As your sponsor, it's my duty to travel with you throughout the Commonwealth to ensure that our ideals are being observed. That's why I'm so concerned about your performance in the field. And why I'll be accompanying you on your next mission."

A vision of Daniels and Rhys entered her mind. Was that where their distrust of her stemmed from? The knowledge that Danse was putting his reputation on the line for a recruit like her? That he was possibly risking his own advancement and career?

Not that it would be the first time someone had misplace their trust in Grey and had gotten burnt. Grey'd probably ruined more lives than she cared to know. Some were intentional, others were just victims of circumstance. Did that bother her? No, because it didn't affect her. Moreover, what difference did it make now? They were all dead and she wasn't. She was still alive.

But the Paladin? She returned her gaze to the broken city below.

"I won't let you down, Danse. I promise."

Another lie. She was always good at those.


	9. Shocks

CHAPTER 9  
Shocks

 _"So, are you ready for your next assignment, sister?"_

The Elder's words rolled through her head as she worked up the courage to pull herself aboard the Vertibird. Sweat beaded along her brow, droplets slithering past her temples.

 _Fort Strong. Super Mutants. A stockpile of Fat Man shells._

She repeated the mission parameters again and again.

Some part of her wanted to be motivated by that, by the fact that creatures with the muscle mass of a titan and the intellect of a banana were sitting on a nuclear arsenal big enough to wipe what remained of Boston from the map three times over. That and the hunk of metal she'd had the misfortune of parking her ass on was a mere three miles from said arsenal. Yet she faltered, sweat now running down her back.

She could sense everyone waiting for her—Dogmeat's gentle head tilt and whine, Danse's quiet yet imposing patience. She uneasily shifted her weight, power armour gripping the Vertibird's frame.

 _"The Brotherhood cannot allow those abominations to have a nuclear arsenal at their fingertips."_

She looked over her shoulder, catching sight of the Elder's battle coat. He stood with his arms behind his back, posture straight, unmoving. Waiting. Waiting for her to grow a goddamn spine.

Tensing her left actuator, she hurled herself aboard, hands gripping the minigun almost on instinct.

"Welcome back, Knight." The Lancer's familiar voice crackled over her onboard intercom, instrumentation and weapon systems suddenly coming to life on her overhead display. She felt a vibration run through the metal beneath her feet, fusion drive coming back alive. She could all but taste the blood pumping in her ears.

"Instruments are green, and we're clear for release."

The aircraft shuddered and its nose dipped, body swinging away from the flight deck. Grey felt the metal continue to reverberate beneath her feet, propellers increasing in speed and noise. Her stomach began to roll.

"Hold onto your breakfast, kids."

They began to drop.

Grey's gut leapt into her throat and she clenched her eyes shut. An alarm started going off in her ear, a pressure warning from her suit. She cracked an eye open, arm controls flashing red. The minigun's grip suddenly bore the impression of her suit's fingers. She cursed.

The outside world swam around her, ground spiralling into view before the pilot corrected.

Grey's weight slammed against the back of her suit's frame, momentarily winding her. Her vision darkened for a moment, spine aching but head light. She dug deep, anchoring her legs in the frame and feeling the armour respond accordingly. The fuzziness lifted as the Vertibird levelled in altitude, airport spreading out beneath her. Waves lapped at the forgotten corpse of a Horizons airliner. She grit her teeth.

The Paladin's voice crackled to life over the suit's internal communications system. "Having the Prydwen moored above the airport keeps the Brotherhood within striking distance."

 _Of what exactly?_ Grey wanted to ask, but her question was quickly answered.

The skeletal remains of the Fort Strong testing site shot into view. The roads and surrounding land had been devoured by the Atlantic, only a wisp of road remaining. Broken buildings lay splattered past the old security checkpoint, the foundations lying open like gaping wounds. Rusted vehicles were scattered amongst the destruction, and Grey could only imagine the circumstances which led to them being discarded there.

And then she saw the Mutants. Dozens of green monsters flocking a creature larger than any she'd ever before seen, its frame dwarfing the others, its back bearing what looked like an old world shopping cart. Its grotesque, lopsided body appeared wrapped in chains, one hand clutching the remains of a hydrant and the other grasping at air.

"What the sweet ever-lasting fuck," Grey whispered over the radio.

A stillness marred the airwaves.

"Behemoth." A single word. But Grey could hear the venom in Danse's voice. The disgust.

What had the US Army done? Grey remembered the rumours surrounding the Forced Evolutionary Virus, known as the Pan-Immunity Virion Project when West Tek was still investigating possible antidotes for Chinese bioweapons on the military's dime. But then something happened in 2075, some research breakthrough which resulted in greater security and higher classification. It had never been a Boston project, but after 2075, its whispers began moving farther and farther west. By 2077, the only intel she'd managed to decode was that it was now called FEV and that Mariposa was somehow involved. Nothing more.

As she looked at the monstrosities below her, some part of her wanted to think the military never anticipated such a twisted outcome. She honestly hadn't believed Piper when she told Grey about the Super Mutants and their FEV. Anti-bioweapon research that resulted in violent mutations, practically creating a new species? A pragmatist would argue the outcome was unfathomable, a million-to-one chance. But Grey knew better. Hell, the US Army probably intentionally released the plague upon the world. Let it loose and then hide away in some bunker, deep below ground. Let the civilians transform and mutate and destroy and suffer. Let them fight a fruitless war only for their political gods to reclaim the rubble and bones. That was their way, after all. No cost was too great when the rewards were power, amusement, and territorial gain.

Her grip tightened on the minigun.

210 years later and she was still being haunted by the goddamn US government.

"Target acquired," the Lancer boomed, drawing her back. "I'll try to keep him in your sights."

 _Here we go._

Grey revved the minigun, aiming it at the Behemoth's centre of mass. She felt the churn beneath her grip before a spray of bullets peppered her vision. Her line of fire carved through a nearby Super Mutant, its brains painting the backside of the shopping-cart freak. Grey fought the pull of the gun, but it haphazardly tore into the Behemoth, its skin all but soaking up the ammunition. Was she even doing any damage?

Bullets clinked off the outside of the Vertibird and laser blasts sizzled in the air before her. One tore across her vision and her stance faltered, suit tipping back and gunfire going wild. She activated her hip thrusters and corrected, only to see a chuck of foundation hurling toward them.

The aircraft dove, but the foundation still struck. She could hear the alarms going off in the cockpit, the Lancer cursing, the Paladin yelling for them to hold on.

An automated voice came over her radio. " _Vertibird integrity at 76%._ "

 _Fuck._

Grey fought against the gun, finally concentrating the fire back on the Behemoth, but it was moving. Fast. Curving around the remnants of buildings, through the maze of rubble and mutant corpses now littering the ground. Bullets clanked off her armour as she fired, the sound like hailstones on a tin roof. She told herself it was minor. The steel plate was shielding her. It would hold. She ignored the durability warning flashing over her left leg.

A slab of concrete flew up from below, jolting the Vertibird upward. Grey screamed, losing her grip on the gun, body tumbling back. Something struck her from behind, pushing her down. A fist of pressure struck her back.

She turned to see the Paladin standing over her, one hand gripping the aircraft netting, the other keeping her firmly aboard the craft.

"Not today, Knight," he said sternly.

"You okay back there?" the Lancer yelled over the screeching of alarms. Grey could see the flashing lights from her periphery.

" _Vertibird integrity at 43%._ "

 _Oh fuck off_ , Grey seethed at the automated voice.

"We can't take another hit like that," the Paladin warned. "We need to get around him, anticipate the trajectory of his throws."

The Lancer scoffed. "Slightly hard, sir, when we're also getting pelted with laser fire from twenty directions."

"We're too easy to hit," Grey said.

"Well, we are the only one-tonne metal object flying around in the sky—makes us an obvious target, Knight."

"Figure eight."

"What?"

"You need to fly in a figure eight," Grey yelled. "I'll attack from the left with the minigun and Danse from the right with his laser rifle. They'll struggle to adjust to the angles, and I don't think their brains have the cognitive capacity to recognize the pattern, at least not quickly."

A moment of silent then, "Do it."

"Aye aye, sir," the Lancer breathed, his tone indicating he clearly wasn't convinced. Grey wasn't either, but she wasn't about to admit that. Retreat likely wasn't an answer. They'd get shot out of the sky before they made it back to the airport. And even if they radioed back to the Prydwen, they'd be dead before any reinforcements arrived.

The Vertibird's path corrected and it flew back into the fray, laser shots scattering their approach. Grey again anchored her weight on the lip of the aircraft, minigun humming beneath her fingers. She cast a quick glance over her shoulder, watching the Paladin kneel by the rear right netting, rifle sights aimed downward.

"Open fire."

—

The Lancer had barely yelled, "Primary target down," before her minigun jammed, her forearms suddenly aching with the lack of vibration. Grey watched as the Behemoth dropped to the ground, green skin slick with blood and viscera. There was little victory as the Vertibird began to jerk beneath their feet, alarms drowning out every thought.

"I'm going to find a place to set her down and—"

The Lancer's words died in his throat as an explosion rocked through the craft. Grey flew into the back of the pilot's chair, side of her head bouncing off the inside of her helmet. She seethed, scalp throbbing and something hot and thick running down behind her ear. Somewhere, Dogmeat yelped.

" _Vertibird integrity at 16%. Immediately seek repairs. Immediately seek repairs._ "

"No fucking shit," the Lancer screamed.

"Lancer, return to the Prydwen immediately—that's an order. Knight, prepare to jump."

"What do you mean—"

Before Grey could collect herself, the Paladin stepped from the aircraft, hurdling out of sight. Her stomach dropped.

" _Vertibird integrity at 16%. Repeat: Vertibird integrity at 16%._ "

Fuck.

Grey straightened and looked below, a cloud of dust and laser fire masking Danse and the remaining Mutants.

How was she even…

"Hey, Face?"

She turned her head, only to see the Lancer peeking around his chair, face streaked with sweat but mouth somehow smirking. He held out a combat shotgun.

"Make sure you give 'em hell."

She swallowed, hands quivering. "Right."

Before she could overthink it, she grasped the gun and tapped her leg with two fingers, extending her arms to Dogmeat. He immediately leapt into her grasp, paws clamouring and sliding against the steel frame. Her free hand cradled him close.

Two steps back and weightlessness overcame her, stomach lifting into her throat. She clenched her eyes and began to count down from ten.

All she could hope was that Danse hadn't fucked up her shocks.


	10. Time

**CHAPTER 10**  
Time

The earth quaked around her as her suit made contact.

Her body dropped, frame shifting downward as the shocks absorbed the fall. She could taste something sour in her throat and quickly licked her lips before swallowing. The taste of salt lingered, sweat from her skin.

She was alive.

Dogmeat leapt from her grasp as she rose from a crouch. He raced out of the dust cloud encompassing them, disappearing from sight. Grey immediately looked up, watching as the Vertibird retreated from the fort, laser fire chasing it as it veered from side to side. But she couldn't hear it, she realized. She couldn't hear the gunshots or the fusion drive.

Panic licked her spine.

All she could hear was rushing fluid and the deep, shuddering beat of her heart. She fought the instinct to claw off her helmet, the instinct to scream. Why couldn't she hear? _Why couldn't she fucking hear?_

She worked her jaw, teeth frantically opening and closing, throat swallowing. She felt something begin to trickle and itch inside her ear canal, felt it spill along her pinna, down along her jaw. She swallowed again, a sharp pain now accompanying the feeling, pressure shifting. If only she could—

White, searing pain erupted from behind her eyes and she dropped to the ground. Black dots speckled her vision, bleeding into flashing red lights. She groped around, feeling the suit scrape against the concrete, struggling.

Another blow hit the back of her head. Her overhead display flickered, more red, more black. She could feel blood pooling along her collarbones, could smell the iron and salt. She groped around again, reaching for her shotgun. For anything. Another blow struck her suit, the brunt of it digging into her shoulder. The frame buckled slightly, something cold now pressing hard against the skin of her neck.

The fluid in her ears shifted again, the feeling of bubbles and popping and—

A deep laugh sounded above her, something perfectly terrifying and infantile.

"Metal man going to die now!"

Grey's fingers latched around something long and heavy, and she bashed it into the Mutant's legs. She felt it tear through its tissue, listened for the brittle crunching of bone. The creature screamed and Grey activated her hip thrusters, launching herself back onto unsteady feet. She didn't wait for her display to reconnect. She knew where it was, and she whipped herself around, again bringing her weapon down on the Mutant's legs. Hands fought against her and the sounds of pain and pleas escaped its throat, but it only enraged her further. She continued to strike, feeling its limbs crush beneath her blows, its tissue splitting and spilling.

Only when its screams stopped did she pause.

Her overhead display fizzled back into focus, daylight jarringly bright and splattered red. She looked down at the busted combat shotgun she held, barrel bent beyond repair and nozzle bearing the imprint of her grip. It was drenched in blood much like her power armour, bits of green and pink tissue speckling her frame and the ground. She threw the gun aside.

Grey turned unsteadily, ears still crackling and head splitting. She could feel her suit's servos trying to compensate, onboard computer fighting against her body's lack of equilibrium. Her overhead display flickered again, visuals tearing. She instinctively thrust her palm against the helmet and all but screamed with the resulting pain.

With deep breaths she told herself to focus. To ignore. She straightened instead, looking around. The test site was littered with carnage and ammunition casings. Several Mutant corpses encircled her, bodies riddled with bullet holes and lasers burns. There was a trail of them, she realized, wrapping around the buildings. She uneasily followed, careful not to trip.

She could hear the faintest rumblings of fighting in the distance, sounds muffled. She again fought the urge to smack her helmet. One of its seals must had been damaged, she surmised. The pressure change from the Vertibird jump likely damaged her eardrum. She'd ruptured her eardrums as a child—a case of her seven-year-old self not telling her parents she had an earache until it was too late and the infection tore a hole through the membrane—so she knew it would heal in time. She also knew that each subsequent rupture increased her chance of permanent hearing loss, but that wasn't a helpful thought as she canvased an active battleground.

Grey stumbled as a single laser blast shot overhead, beam colliding with something above. Brick and plaster crumbled onto her shoulders, and she looked up as a second storey wall crashed down upon her. She leapt sideways, leg thrusters hurling her across the street and into the remnants of another building. Her back struck concrete and breath left her lungs. Even in darkness, she felt the world spin around her.

Biting through the nausea, she forced her eyes open, finally spotting the Paladin roughly 75 feet ahead. Two Mutants attempted to circle him, one brandishing a piece of two-by-four wrapped with razor wire and another approaching with bare hands. The Paladin's stance was surprisingly relaxed, laser rifle cradled in the crook of his suit's arm. He was watching them though, helmet turning ever so slightly, waiting for them to make their inevitable move. Easy enough for the Paladin to dispatch, she decided.

With a groan, Grey attempted to pull herself back onto her feet. The power armour's integrity sensor for her left leg intermittently flashed as did the indicator for her upper torso. She didn't need a mirror to know that some of the steel plating near the back of her neck had been badly damaged. She could feel it push against the frame beneath, the frame also buckling down towards her body, pinching at her skin. Grey pushed herself onto a knee, examining what remained of her left leg. The plate was riddled with indentations, several bullets still lodged in the steel. She began to pick out the loose ammunition and gave her neck a roll. That's when she saw it.

Her blood ran cold, body freezing.

Fifty feet ahead, green skin shone from behind a wall of rubble and vines. It hoisted something large upon its shoulder, metal frame catching shards of sunlight. Clumsy, muscular hands forced a missile down the barrel. Its green body shifted its stance with the added weight. Hands adjusting, launcher aiming. Aiming its barrel at the remaining Mutants. At Danse.

"Get out of there!" Grey screamed.

Her on-board radio spat static in reply.

"Danse! _Danse_!"

No reply.

He couldn't hear her.

Grey launched herself from the concrete, overdriving her core assembly. She charged toward the Mutant, closing the distance between them, but she was too far away. She wasn't going to make it. And as the realization hit her, her throat began to swell.

Danse was going to die.

Something bit into her left arm and suddenly the world slowed around her. She felt the descent of her legs as if time were infinite, felt the ginger pull of the frame in the suit, each movement barely a millimetre in distance but boundless in sensation. Her racing heart was suddenly a solitary beat, the sound deep and deafening. The Mutant began his war cry as he aimed, frequency wrong and tone wavering. She could see the shift in Danse's frame. His instincts noticing something was wrong, brain not having the time to process. If only she could—

Her display sparked to life, overlay turning green, the battlefield transforming before her into a series of percentages and angles. 77% weapon grab probability. 82% crippling shot. 32% fatality shot.

She knew what to do.

As reality snapped back into place, Grey activated her reverse thrusters and scraped her fingertips against the ground. Her hand clumsily snatched the blood-soaked laser rifle from a corpse's grip, green flesh tearing at the joints. Pressing the butt against her arm, she didn't bother to look through the sights. She just fired.

Danse's head snapped to the left as a missile whistled past. Heat erupted against the back of his suit and his body rocked forward, explosion sounding. He used the distraction to empty his clip into the two Mutants before him. As they dropped to the ground, he caught sight of a blur of red and silver. A scream pierced the air before being silenced by a sizzling shot.

Her raced toward the sound, dodging around dilapidated brick to see Grey standing above another Mutant, her foot on its chest and rifle resting against what remained of its ruptured skull. A missile launcher fell from its hands.

Grey could sense the Paladin staring at her, but she couldn't move. Her heartbeat continued to deafen her, adrenaline coursing beneath her skin. The dread and anger and excitement was near overwhelming, and she knew if she didn't focus, she'd forget to breathe. Instead she stared at the lip of her rifle, blood sizzling against its touch. Bits of brain and bone shone beneath the red mess underfoot, glinting in the morning light. It smelt of pork roast, feces, and rain. She fought the urge to vomit.

"Knight, we need to get out of here. _Knight_."

Grey finally looked up, realizing the voice was coming from outside of her suit.

"My communications device is shot," she found herself yelling, and the Paladin's hands quickly went for her helmet.

Static shot over her radio, quickly replaced by the Paladin's slightly laboured breathing. He grabbed her by the shoulder, leading her away. Only as they stepped back did she see the waste barrels, neon liquid spilling from multiple bullet punctures. Her Pip-Boy's Geiger counter continued to click, frequency lessening with each step. How long had she been exposed?

"Your suit will have shielded you from the majority of it," Danse said as if reading her mind. "We'll have Cade flush your system when we return to the Prydwen. But first…"

"We have a mission to finish. Yeah, I know."

She shook her head and continued up the road, past the blown-out tanker and fallen Behemoth. Dogmeat returned to her side, snout and teeth painted crimson. He wagged his tail.

"Proceed carefully," Danse cautioned. "These fortifications may still be inhabited."

Grey doubted it.

Her Geiger gave the occasional click as they passed each building. She could see the sewage and discarded nuclear waste peeking up through rotted floorboards. The paint had rusted and chipped from the barrels, revealing the radioactive hazard symbols beneath.

Official documents had listed the fort's exterior grounds as a simulated town and overflow work site, but Grey knew the General had designated it a testing site in 2075. He had non-essential personnel stationed in those offices. He'd even had some of the soldiers relocated there. Had the nuclear waste been hidden there then? Was it part of another research trial, something to do with long-term exposure to low levels of gamma radiation? It wouldn't have surprised her if it had; military staff were often the unknowing participants of their co-workers' experiments. She'd been called to Fort Strong once before, after all. She knew the kind of games General Brock had liked to play.

As they approached the fort, Grey found herself pausing by the rusted and overgrown sign. She wove her fingers through the sun-scorched vines, tearing them back from the metal-faced print. US Army Fort Strong. She grit her teeth.

She remembered the day Cantrell had dragged her there. No explanation, no time to prepare. Just an inconvenient summons, an ushering of her into his car. It had felt like they'd driven forever, leaving the city, crossing the Charles, turning past the airport. He hadn't bothered with smalltalk and neither had she. It had taken enough of her willpower to stomach sitting in an enclosed space with his stench of expensive aftershave and Cuban cigars. Only as his driver had pulled up in front of the fort, sign on display, had she known why they were there.

"I trust things are going well with the Walsh case, Lieutenant?"

Grey had kept her gaze fixed on the sign, not allowing the Major to see the truth in her eyes.

"Let's say the Sergeant and I are… building a rapport," she had said lightly, adding the right amount of pause and cautious confidence.

From the window glass she could see the Major's lips contort into an unnatural smile, like the gesture had been foreign to him, beneath him.

She hadn't been driven there to discuss the Walsh case though. The Major's words had been a red herring. There was only one reason why she'd been accompanied to Fort Strong, and depending on how she played it, there was only one way in which she'd be allowed to leave.

Grey shook off the past as she and Danse pushed their way into the atrium, Dogmeat pacing at the rear. Glass crunched underfoot and Grey squinted against the brightness of the room. Her chest burned, brain picking through sights versus memories. The once-stunning staircase had collapsed, replaced with oozing meat bags and crackling fires. Above, all that remained of the skylights were metal frames, glass long ago shattered. She took a step forward, foot colliding with a series of wooden crates. A human skull sat atop, jaw unhinged and yellow teeth smiling back.

"How pleasant," she mumbled.

She tightened her grip on her rifle.

Footsteps thumped all around them, voices blaring from multiple rooms. One Mutant complained of hunger, another belittled its "brother" for once confusing the sounds of an escaping prisoner with a mouse. Savage laughter boomed from the west wing, and Grey again felt her pulse quicken.

Bullets struck something metal and she all but came out of her skin. Danse paused only to shake his head. Another blast of gunfire sounded, followed by more baritone laughter.

The fuckers were wasting ammunition for amusement, Grey realized. She could practically hear Nate's laughter, him telling her that simple things did tend to amuse simple minds.

She kissed her teeth and tread as lightly as possible across the glass. She motioned for the Paladin to veer left. If her memory served, there was an elevator next to the lunchroom. She could only hope it had fared better than the stairs.

Grey had barely turned the corner as a line of bullets ran up her side. Before she could move, Danse hurled himself in front of her, his weight throwing her back behind him. She tumbled through a rotting door, fall broken by a wooden desk. Another spray of bullets tore into the doorway, splinters of wood flying across the room. She rolled further into the office, floorboards cracking under the weight of her suit.

Her vision began to swim again as she pulled herself to her feet, but within the confusion she found herself lunging for her rifle and firing across the room. A Mutant screamed as it pitched back out of sight. Grey pressed her back against the wall as a shotgun blast tore across the office, shattering what remained of the windows. Reaching her arm across her suit, she awkwardly held the laser rifle and fired blindly, holding the trigger until the fusion cell burned dry.

There was no retaliatory fire. No further shotgun blasts. Grey pulled back the rifle and ejected the cell before reloading. Her suit's previous owner seemed to rely exclusively on fusion cells and 10mm rounds. A strange combination, but who was she to judge.

She fumbled with the reload, suddenly realizing she'd never loaded a laser rifle before. She'd never trusted herself to do so, if only because she'd found herself more likely to self-inflict a wound with a laser weapon than hit an actual target. Would Nate be proud, she caught herself wondering before quickly discarding the thought. It didn't matter. _He_ didn't matter.

Grey pressed through the office and over the Mutant's corpse into the kitchen. She crouched by the kitchen door and spied into the lunchroom. She could hear at least three Mutants huddled between the lunchroom and outside hallway, their attention strictly on Danse.

"Continue to draw their fire," she whispered over the radio.

His breath hitched, the sound of projectiles clanging off his armour. "Roger."

She heard the Paladin yell from down the hall, laser rounds firing wildly. The Mutants stirred with surprise, hollers of excitement escaping grotesque mouths. They returned fire, a series of shotgun blasts and laser rounds searing the air.

Grey leaned around the doorframe and pressed the butt of her rifle against her shoulder, focusing her sights on the nearest Mutant's skull. The other two didn't notice as their brethren dropped behind them. Only as the second corpse dropped did the remaining Mutant detect her position. It turned to her, nostrils flared, before Danse burned a hole the size of a fist through its chest.

They didn't dare utter a word as they regrouped in the hallway. Both kept their rifles at chest level, cautiously peering around each corner.

They found the elevator with ease and Grey fought a smile as the gears hummed to life with a press of the call button. The door didn't open though, and she quickly spotted why.

Brock had always been too cute by a mile.

She swore an oath and began her trek back to the east wing, the Paladin and German Shepherd both close at her heels.

"I get the sense you know where you're going, Knight."

She didn't bother to reply.

The less Dense knew about her life before the war, the better. And if he wanted to know? She'd cross that bridge when she got to it. But for now—she stepped into the receptionist's office and her chest burned hollow. Two hundred and twelve years later and she could still feel the dread she'd felt on that December day. But it hadn't been two centuries for her. It had only been two years. Two years and yet she could still hear the lingering suspicion in Cantrell's voice, hear the threat in his words.

Two years ago, she'd nearly lost her life in that office.

She'd be damned if she let it happen again.


	11. Costs

CHAPTER 11  
Costs

Major Cantrell escorted her from the car and into the fort, hand cupping her elbow, body pressed against her side. Some might have perceived the gesture as gentlemanly or old-fashioned, but Grey knew it was anything but. His pace had been unusually slow, his lips all but tracing the bend of her ear. She willed herself not to recoil.

"You're familiar with the restructuring of the fort's command earlier this year I trust."

She dared not answer. The question, like most of Cantrell's drivel, was rhetorical. She was aware of the restructuring though, but only because of the intel that had slid past her desk several weeks earlier. Intel that had apparently also fallen into hands less gracious than hers.

Cantrell continued, voice at a volume only she could hear. "General Brock's methods may leave... something to be desired. Let us say subtlety is not his strong suite." He told her then of the dossier that had been passed to JAG Corps, presumably through an anonymous CID source. How CID had unearthed the intel was inconsequential to Cantrell and his superiors. What mattered was that Fort Strong had a leak, and that JAG Corps was forced to involve itself. What the Major failed to identify, however, was the way in which their division was to become involved. That, Grey realized, was her test.

Her heart hammered in her chest.

"Are we expected?" she asked as the Major escorted her into the administrative office.

The receptionist's gawking face was answer enough. He fumbled into position, taking too long to salute. Even Grey found herself growing irritated.

"Major Cantrell and Lieutenant Grey to see General Brock."

The receptionist stared daftly, face flushing red. "I, uh, I don't have you in the General's diary, sir."

"I'm sure the General can spare a moment for an old war buddy and his colleague."

If the receptionist had half a brain, Cantrell's tone alone would have been sufficient to get them through the door. Both Cantrell and Grey knew that throwing the word "JAG" around would only arouse suspicion. Or panic.

The receptionist's cheeks continued to burn. "I, um, well. I'll check with..." The man scrambled up from behind his desk and knocked on the General's door, edging it open as he spoke. The General barked in response and the receptionist flinched.

"My apologies, sir, but there's a Major Ca—"

"I don't give a flying fuck if it's the goddamn President outside my door, Murphy, I am not to be interrupted by trivial—"

Cantrell guided Grey to the door and pushed it open over the receptionist's head, cutting the General off.

From her position, Grey watched the General's expression switch from one of boisterous rage to contained disgust.

"Brock," Cantrell greeted coldly.

The General cracked his jaw, face strained. "What do you want, Cantrell?"

The Major gave a curt smile. "Nice to see you, too, old friend."

Grey worked to suppress any overt signs of curiosity. She'd thought the "war buddy" line was a ruse, and it likely had been, but Cantrell and Brock clearly knew one another. Either that meant Brock had been investigated before, or the upper echelon's dealings extended farther than she'd suspected. Both prospects were problematic.

"Fifteen minutes and we'll be out of your hair."

The General scoffed. "Right."

He waved Grey and the Major in and threatened Murphy with latrine duty should he repeat his mistake ever again.

Grey had barely sat before Brock's seedy eyes latched onto her, giving her the once over. He sneered with disapproval. "And who the fuck are you?"

Grey felt Cantrell side-eye her. From the periphery, she could see the subtle softening of his posture in his chair, the gentle pressing of his fingertips as he relaxed. His way of telling her that this conversational minefield was for her to walk alone. She suspected he or someone above him had decided that it was time for her to demonstrate her worth. The Walsh case? That was an organizational necessity, her involvement apparently of Sergeant Anders' making. But this? This was a true test. The kind that ended in her continued service or an empty seat in the town car on the way back to Boston.

She'd known the stakes from the moment they'd pulled up in front of the fort. Best case scenario, Cantrell was going through the motions with her. Worst case scenario, she'd been flagged. Had someone looked too closely at her background checks? Had she drawn the ire of someone far above her reach? Had her organization been compromised? If the military had got even a hint of the fact that she was—

Grey cut her thoughts short. She couldn't venture down that rabbit hole. Not then and not there.

She ignored the sweat slithering down her back, ignored the anxiety swirling in her gut.

 _Focus._

She had to piece together what Cantrell wished of her, and fast. There were two primary options, but the two were so far removed from one another that she wouldn't be able to facilitate a tactful switch if she sensed things weren't going right. No, she had to make a snap judgement, and she had to do it before the first words fell from her mouth.

The General's expression deepened with the growing silence. "I said, who—"

"You've lost the knack for listening, General."

He balked, turning to the Major. "Cantrell, what is the meaning—"

"We're talking, General," Grey said calmly, cutting him off. "You and me. A nice little chat, and nothing more."

She softened her gaze and flashed him a smile, her guise just enticing enough to stun him into silence.

"Good," she cooed. "As I was saying, _listening_. It's a strange skill, isn't it? So key at the beginning of your enlistment. Hanging onto your CO's every word, keeping your ear trained for the subtlest of sounds. It keeps officers in check and then it keeps them alive, hopefully long enough to progress up the chain of command. Long enough to be useful. But after a while, some stop listening because they feel it is their words that must be listened to. And, while there may be some truth to that, there is some merit in continuing to keep one's ear to the ground, so to speak."

"Look, missy, if you're here to give me some grade-school lecture on—"

"Why do you think we're here today, General?"

He shot her a glare, but his silence was telling. His weakness was that few challenged him anymore, which left his conversational skills rusty. He couldn't tolerate her interrupting him, her challenging him. As clever as the man was—and he was clever; she'd seen the intel, after all—he struggled to cope with the power imbalance she was creating. That had been her intention though, and the only way in which the scenario could be effectively played.

"What," she posed, tone whimsical, "could have brought two JAG officers to your door?"

His posture shifted ever so slightly, but Grey knew it masked a whirlwind of dread. For every allegation in the CID's report, she knew there were likely dozens more infractions. Dozens more examples of code violations, criminal dealings, officer misconduct, and unethical research practices. But it was all conjecture, and Brock would know that if he saw what had been leaked. Except he didn't know. He could only speculate what trail had led them to him and how detailed it possibly was. Grey was relying on that. For the guilty but untried, endless possibilities tended to evoke greater panic than actual facts.

Grey leaned back in her chair, slowly uncrossing and recrossing her legs, letting the General's attention have a brief waver. She entwined her fingers through the platinum chain she wore around her neck, allowing a manicured nail to "accidentally" undo the uppermost button of her blouse. She shifted her weight, leaning against the armrest in a way which she knew would press her cleavage together. Anxiety and arousal were a potent combination, one that typically worked in her favour. She could see it in the General's face, the clamminess of his flesh, the strain in his jowls, the lingering of his eyes. He was where she needed him.

"Friendships are rare in this business, General. Even rarer are those relationships born of respect and loyalty—loyalty to the cause, to the good fight, to freedom. _American_ freedom." She met his gaze. "If we're to win this war, we need to maintain our relationships with such loyal patriots. True patriots, like yourself.

"Cantrell and I thought we'd visit a good friend today, see how he was doing, catch up on old war stories. And, of course, ask you about that _boat_ you've been working on." Grey gave a coy smile. "Marvellous piece of craftsmanship on your part. Something you've worked tirelessly on for—what—six months now? Especially marvellous when one recognizes that you inherited the frame from someone else, someone... less skilled. Except even things of handcrafted beauty can have hidden flaws. And sometimes, sometimes beneath that flawless coat of paint is a hole. A _leak_ , if you will. One with the potential to eventually sink all of your hard work." She dropped her chain. "What a shame that'd be."

She could see his brain work through her metaphor, that anxiety and arousal turning to something angry. Angered, but back in control.

"As your friends, we thought we'd advise you to see to that leak. Scrape back the paint, if you will. I'm sure—hypothetically—that the CID has better things to do than investigate a _known_ drowning. Best avoid that eventuality all together really."

The General sat back in his chair. "Much appreciated, Lieutenant...?"

"Grey," she said with a smile.

He stood and extended his hand. "I appreciate your visit. And the advice. I'll be sure to return the favour in the future, _friend_."

Grey refused to let herself steal a glance at Cantrell until they were once again seated in the back of his car. Providing she made it that far.

Cantrell's driver closed the door behind her as she stepped inside, skirt sliding against the leather interior. She exhaled, the world finally setting, heart rate slowing.

The doors locked and a body lunged toward her.

Cantrell loomed above, shoulder pressed into her's, his arm gripping the headrest behind her. He pinned her against the passenger side door, his scent of tobacco, sandalwood and cloves suffocating her. The look on his face she couldn't read. There was just intensity, eyes curious and predatory, watching her. He reached for her and she clenched her teeth, forcing herself not to flinch.

His fingertips fluttered over her forehead, gingerly pushing a strand of black hair from her face. As she moved to tilt her head away, he grasped her chin, lightly pulling her face towards his.

"What would you think if I were to confess wanting to kiss you right now?"

His words were but a whisper, hot on her face. She could all but feel the prickle of his skin against hers.

She narrowed her brow, eyes flitting across his face. Faint lines adorned his steely gaze. She traced the muscles working beneath his flesh, from concave cheeks to prominent jaw. They ran down his neck, disappearing beneath his uniform. Each was strained, tensed. There was danger there.

She parted her mouth, watching his eyes trace the curve of her bottom lip.

"I'd wonder what advantage your weakness could afford me."

He gave a flash of teeth, deep laughter filling the space.

"Good answer."

He moved away from her then, settling back into his seat as if nothing had happened. Acting as if nothing had changed.

She'd passed his test it seemed. She was supposed to feel relieved.

Except she didn't.

She felt more frightened than ever.

—

Grey kicked her way through the General's door and the memory of that day flooded back without warning. She remembered sitting in that office, weaving some bullshit metaphor about friends and leaky hulls. She'd woven the story she thought would keep her ass intact, the story that kept Cantrell and his cronies happy. She'd been passed intel that a General was abusing his position and putting countless lives at risk. And what had she done? She walked into his office and told him to subject his staff to a witch hunt. She told him to keep doing what he was doing, but just do it more quietly.

Was that what she'd signed up for back then?

The goal had been to infiltrate and investigate. Keep the mission alive, no matter the cost, which equated with keeping herself alive. Alive and hidden. And yes, she'd done that. She'd walked out of Fort Strong in better standing than ever before, more ingratiated in her boss's world, the proper seeds sowed. But at what cost?

That's what she needed to know.

Two centuries later and Brock's office had barely changed. His desk still stood upright, terminal somehow functional and flashing green. His mini nuke remained in its display case, the surrounding glass shattered, likely from the aftershocks of the bombs. A dusty American flag stood poised next to a painting of a lighthouse.

She wondered if Brock had known that the painting wasn't American. Sure, it looked like any New England coastline, but it wasn't. The painting was of a Cape Breton lighthouse, painted by a French Canadian nationalist, Philippe Charon. He'd been killed during the American annexation of Canada in 2072, framed a terrorist when all he did was publicly protest their pillaging of his home. Grey's mother had always liked Charon's work. At the time of his death, Grey remembered thinking she was glad her mother was already dead so she didn't have to see him executed on live TV.

Grey gave the painting another glance. Its edges were faded and cracked, paint peeling by the frame, reds too pale and blues too bright. Another victim of the bombs. Or of time. She tore her eyes away.

She pillaged through Brock's desk, finding illegible scraps of paper and a useless set of Corvega keys. She slammed the drawer shut and walked to his wall safe, not hesitating before she slammed her suit's fist into its rusted hinges. The safe creaked open and she hurriedly grabbed the elevator keys from within.

"How did you know those would be there?"

She startled at Danse's voice, her brain having somehow forgotten him.

"It was US Army protocol for a site's most senior officer to have a complete set of all existing keys and passes. Rarely were these items permitted to leave the base, meaning they'd be securely stored in the CO's office."

"And how'd you come to learn this, soldier?"

Grey froze, realizing her mistake.

She could tell him it didn't matter. That it was none of his concern. But those words only created distance, mistrust. And for better or for worse, she needed Danse. She needed his approval, his positive appraisals and reports. He was her gateway to the Brotherhood, and she needed that relationship preserved until she reclaimed what was hers. She needed his continued trust.

"My husband served. Second Battalion, 108th Infantry Regiment." Grey paused. "He kept nothing from me. Told me things he never should have. Secrets, he called them, for my precocious mind to ponder and keep."

A half-truth, but still real. She vividly remembered his voice murmuring those words, his fingers wrapped in her hair, their bodies entwined in her bed. The way he'd looked at her, the chilling blue of his eyes.

She swallowed, throat dry.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

She shook her head, cutting his apology short. "Don't do that. It's... fine."

She wasn't sure who she was trying to convince of that, but as she pushed past Danse and made her way back to the elevator, she realized it didn't really matter. She didn't need anyone to feel sorry for her, least of all herself.

She'd come to terms with Nate's death the moment she looked upon his frosted corpse. She'd said her goodbyes, taken his wedding band, and made him a promise. All that remained was for her to deliver on those words.

She shoved the key into the panel, feeling it grind against the years of neglect. But it turned and the doors opened. Grey and Danse checked their sights and turned off their safeties as the elevator descended deeper into the earth. Grey knew there had been offices down there, a reactor, some labs, but she didn't know what to expect. Would the reactor still be active? Did the Super Mutants find another way inside? Did the staff manage to escape when the bombs dropped, or would she be walking into a den of time-locked corpses or ghouls?

Dogmeat growled as the doors opened to a darkened hallway. But Grey could smell it. Rotting flesh. The scent seeped through her suit's filters, a mix of iron and sulphur and feces.

There were Mutants down there.

They crept through the dilapidated offices and onto the upper mezzanine, overlooking the reactor and labs below. Grey could hear the faint click of her Geiger counter, indicating a reactor leak. The lights were still on though, meaning the labs were still operational. They could hold answers yet.

Grey took aim at a sleeping Mutant Hound, the shot striking his hindquarter and severing a leg. It let out a monstrous howl, and the Mutants came alive. Hollers and shotgun blasts and thumping steps.

Grey pitched herself over the railing onto two Mutants below. One went down with her, its chest crunching beneath her weight. The other fell back and fired point blank against her breastplate. Sensors went off in her suit, shotgun pebbles shredding the metal and poking against her frame. She felt metal scrape against her ribs, but she didn't falter, instead decking the Mutant with her freehand before placing the barrel of her gun against its skull. Its face turned to ash.

Dogmeat raced ahead of her and she chased after him, allowing him to snap at the Mutants' limbs, distracting them long enough for her to riddle them with laser burns. They charged at her with wooden planks, but she knew not to let them get too close. She aimed for limbs and joints, watching their bodies drop on bloodied stumps, screams escaping rotting mouths. And then it all went quiet.

Left to the sounds of her armour integrity sensor and her depleting fusion core, she dropped her rifle and stomped into the nearest lab. Meat bags bled upon tables, empty canisters littering the floor. The air smelled of blood, piss, and ozone. She switched off her external filters and activated her onboard air supply.

She caught sight of an old terminal and knelt before it, repeatedly striking the power supply. It hummed to life, resuming from a two-hundred-year sleep. A series of Bravo Team testing reports flashed before her and she poured through each, seeing the damage unfold.

 _We lost two good soldiers this morning. They were on the surface testing a MIRV variant of the launcher, when one of the warheads misfired and hit the ground right where they were standing. Poor bastards didn't even have a chance. We couldn't even find any remains to send home to their folks, so Brock told us to just fill some cans with sand._

Grey's gut twisted. She remembered that report. It had been included in the intel, suspicion that soldiers' remains hadn't been properly returned to families under General Brock's orders. The report writer concluded that Brock didn't give a crap about them, and the writer was correct. Brock, like many of his cronies, had only been interested in his own agency. His own success. And fuck the rest.

Grey ran a backdoor trace on the system, process hindered my her suit's clunky fingers. She found a hidden subroutine. A two-way chat with three years worth of archives. She narrowed the results to 2075.

 _09/02/2075  
_ _NZ1: I spoke with my contact today. She's in good with CID. Said she'd find a way to help.  
_ _NZ2: If you get caught, we're not going down with you. You're on your own.  
_ _NZ1: Fine. But someone had to do something. Janet's missing and Lance is still in a coma. And fuck Brock's BS claim that she took emergency leave without pay for personal reasons. Janet was an only child, deceased parents, and no husband. She didn't even have a goddamn dog. I saw her walk into Brock's office but she never came out. She just disappeared.  
_ _NZ2: You're paranoid.  
_ _NZ1: Yeah, maybe. But try and tell me I shouldn't be.  
_ _NZ2: Just be careful._

Grey continued to scroll. Looking for traces of Janet, instead finding more speculation of resources being misuse, safety protocols being ignored, staff mysteriously transferring out overnight.

Her blood ran cold as she found a December entry.

 _12/06/2075  
_ _NZ2: What's this crap Murphy's spewing about two surprise visitors today? Said they were dressed funny, but he forgot to look at their insignia. Described them as tall motherfuckers with judgey eyes.  
_ _NZ1: I think they were JAG officers.  
_ _NZ2: No way! You think they got your reports? Are there here to help? Launch an official investigation or whatever they do.  
_ _NZ1: No.  
_ _NZ2: How do you know that?  
_ _NZ1: I saw them as they left. One of them looked so smug and I heard Brock call him by name. Clearly they were friendly.  
_ _NZ2: OK, but what about the other one?  
_ _NZ1: I can't explain it, but I think she knew it was me.  
_ _NZ2: What? That you're the whistleblower? How?  
_ _NZ1: I don't know. It was the way she looked at me. Like she was sorry? She just shook her head and looked away. She looked ashamed.  
_ _NZ2: We are so fucked.  
_ _NZ1: Yeah, we are. Time to delete these logs. Or encrypt them.  
_ _NZ2: Leave it to me._

She didn't remember seeing anyone as she was escorted from the fort. She didn't remember much of anything, granted, her body in a state of numbness, her mind only preoccupied with her continued existence. Had she been ashamed then? Did she even have the capacity to feel that way at that time?

And should she be feeling that way now?

She stepped back from the terminal.

She wasn't doing herself any favours. Yes, she'd helped a monster continue to operate as a monster. Yes, one could argue that the deaths of some of those soldiers were possibly due to her inaction and the inaction of her peers. But why was it suddenly her job to stop corruption in its wake? She'd been doing that, hadn't see? Different organization, different war, but same desired outcome.

But it hadn't mattered in the end. It had all been fruitless, fighting for a future none of them would ever see. Fuck, few of them likely saw any future at all. In 2077, that world ended. And its concerns ended with it.

She could grapple with her morals on her deathbed, she told herself. For now, it didn't matter.

She disconnected the terminal and walked down toward the arsenal, Dogmeat hot on her heels.

She found Danse standing among more carnage. He looked from meat bag to corpse, visor scanning. "Look at this place. You must hate these mutants as much as I do."

Hate seemed a strong word. Grey didn't really hate Super Mutants any more than she hated feral ghouls or raiders or menstrual pains. They were an inconvenience, sure, and disgusting to look upon, but they weren't worth the energy of hating. The only energy they were worth was what was required to pull a trigger and walk away.

That hadn't been the first time she'd heard Danse make such a comment though. She remembered the venom in his voice on the Vertibird, the offhand remarks he'd made in Cambridge.

"Why do you hate Super Mutants so much?"

He paused, cradling his weapon, grip growing tight around its frame. "They're responsible for the death of a close friend, a Brotherhood knight named Cutler. So when you ask if I hate them," he said, voice terse, "I say hate's too gentle a word.

"These _monstrosities_ ," he spat, "are just another example of man blindly taking a step forward only to wind up stumbling two steps back. I've been fighting for years, trying to put a stop to this madness, and just when I thought we were getting the upper hand, along come the synths."

Grey felt herself recoil, not liking where this was going. Not liking the disgust bleeding from his words.

"I've seen what these Super Mutants do to people—can you imagine what the synths would do to us if they ever got the upper hand? It would be armageddon, repeated. And maybe the end of everything that we hold dear."

He sighed. "Look, I don't mean to bore you with my rhetoric. I just want you to understand how important these missions are."

That wasn't good enough though. The synths weren't Super Mutants. They weren't even close, and they couldn't so easily be tarred by the same brush.

"How could synths possibly bring about our destruction?"

Danse didn't need a moment to consider. He already had his response. Grey was beginning to wonder if all Brotherhood soldiers had one.

"If the synths reached the point where they outnumbered mankind... how long would it take for them to decide we were no longer necessary? They certainly possess the capability to make more of their own kind, so we'd become expendable. And with Institute technology on their side... nothing could stop them. Not even the Brotherhood." She could hear the concern in his voice then, its sentiment drowning out the venom from before.

"It's a nightmare scenario almost too terrible to contemplate."

Suddenly she thought of Isaac Asimov, a twentieth century writer and professor of biochemistry. He wrote many essays and fictional works debating the impact of robotics and artificial intelligence on humanity. He'd even devised his Three Laws of Robotics, a hypothetical safeguard against the infinite possibilities of an AI's prowess. He hadn't been the only writer to query the role of fragile humanity in a future where robots were made its protectors and its intellectual superiors.

Was that what the Brotherhood feared would happen to the Commonwealth? That the synths would decide humanity was best saved by its own termination? Hell, they'd only need to look around to see what devastation humanity had wrought. It wasn't a leap in logic to think they'd grown undeserving of planet earth—of continuing to live.

It seemed ridiculous, but she could only wonder what programming restraints the Institute installed in their own creations. Did they have their own version of the Three Laws, or were the synths more organic than an AI? Were they really just people? Oppressed, brainwashed people? Only distinguishable from humans during a postmortem, only distinguishable because of a small bit of plastic and circuitry imbedded in their brains?

The truth was that she didn't know. But neither did the Brotherhood. Or the Railroad. Only one faction knew, except they weren't fielding question. No one knew where they even were. No one except Virgil.

"Anyway," Danse said. "That's enough of that. What's important here is that you got the job done and secured these warheads. You should head back up to the Prydwen and talk to Maxson. I'm sure he'll want to debrief you as soon as possible." He gave her a nod. "Dismissed."

Grey's exhaustion didn't hit her until she and Dogmeat returned to the surface. Sunlight blinded her as she left the fort for what she hoped was the last time. Her body ached as she walked, fusion core on its last 5%. The suit began to slow, each step requiring more effort, actuators tense and uncooperative.

She heard the voice of a small child as she passed by the Nordhagen Beach settlement.

"Look mommy, it's one of those Brotherhood guys! Look how big his suit is!"

A red-headed woman in plaid and jeans pulled her son close as Grey passed, eyes watching too intently.

Grey paused, only for a moment. Her stance was met with the pump of a loaded shotgun.

A man appeared from the small beach shack, double barrel held by his side. "Best move along, stranger. Don't want trouble with any of your kind here."

She could've told him she meant no harm. That the Brotherhood meant no harm. But those words would fall on deaf ears.

The truth was Grey had no idea who she posed a risk to anymore. If history had taught her anything, both her actions and inactions had the potential to kill.

She continued back to the airport in silence, not even letting her thoughts fill the void.

She didn't want the company.


	12. Taunter

CHAPTER 12  
Taunter

Grey suppressed a moan as her suit released, body near tumbling out. She gripped the interior frame and pressed her eyes closed as a wave of gut-wrenching agony tore up her ribcage and across her shoulders.

She could feel eyes on her as she stepped out and onto the workshop floor. A nearby Scribe gaped at her, his blowtorch firing against nothing. She shot him a look and he quickly turned away, fumbling with his tools.

She limped around the front of her armour, gauging the extent of needed repairs. She ran a hand across the breastplate, Brotherhood insignia all but turned to a mess of textured steel and paint. At least two dozen shotgun pellets clung to the ruptured metal, more imbedded in the power armour frame beneath.

Grey gingerly traced her fingertips along her ribs. Hissing, she jerked her hand back. A thin, watery layer of blood stained her fingers, more fluid beading beneath chipped nails.

It was minor, she told herself. Only a few pellets had bypassed the armour, and they were all imbedded in the outer layer of her skin. Nothing a set of tweezers and a Stimpak couldn't fix.

She deduced her armour's left leg was shot and would need full replacement and rewiring. The back of her suit also needed some serious hammering out. The steel plating looked like someone had taken a battering ram to it, which wasn't a far cry from the truth.

Grey had no clue how to go about fixing any of it. She wasn't a mechanic or an engineer. That had been her husband. Car's engine needed tuning up? Ask Nate. Kitchen sink leaking again? Get Nate. HVAC on the fritz? Where the sweet fuck was Nate.

She'd never predicted a scenario where a mechanical skill set would have been useful to her. Then again, she imagined few pre-war lawyers ever had. Even with the Sino-American War and regular threats of nuclear Armageddon, few had actually thought it would happen. Hell, she'd even thought Vault-Tec had been nothing more than a strategic optics project designed to milk the American government's capitalistic teat. Fortunately or unfortunately for her—she hadn't made up her mind which—she'd been wrong about Vault-Tec. Then again, it seemed she'd been wrong about many things.

If there was any silver lining, it was that she at least knew weapon maintenance and modification. It was a skill she'd thought would be useless to her as a JAG officer, but, well, life hadn't exactly gone as she'd expected. Few things had, and she anticipated few things ever would.

With a sigh, she decided she'd figure out the repairs later. First she needed to report in to Maxson. Illustrate that she could get the job done, both efficiently and effectively. Something to edge herself into his good graces.

More faces stared as she limped through the mess hall.

"You, uh, okay there, chief?"

Grey glared at the boy who thought that was an intelligent question. _Boy_ hadn't been an exaggeration either. He reminded her of a college freshman, baby-faced and naive but radiating an air of invulnerability. Even fixed by her stare, he grinned stupidly as he hunkered down into his meal, giggles escaping his and his lunchmate's tiny mouths.

If every movement hadn't been agony, she would have grasped the back of his hair and driven his face into his bowl of what she could only assume was dog-meat stew.

Instead she continued without comment, down the hall and past the archives, fixing her sights on the forward ladder by the officers' quarters. It was only as she endeavoured to climb down that an arm reached out and looped itself through hers, pulling her back.

"Yeah, _no_ ," a male voice said, hands guiding her back the way she came.

She stood her ground, painfully, and stifled a groan as her shoulder bent in a way she wished it hadn't. The man's touch had been light though, and he stopped with her resistance but continued to hold her arm. She glared.

"I don't need—"

"A puppy? Yeah, I know. Seen your dog. He's a charmer. But if that sentence was going to end with 'a doctor', then you're sadly mistaken, Face."

Her brain did a double take, and she looked— _really_ looked—at the man holding her arm. The Lancer gave her a warm smile, a single dimple forming in his tanned skin. His blond hair was slightly unkempt and escaping from a loose bun. She barely recognized him without his flight helmet. His copper eyes held the same warmth as his smile, but they were also tainted with worry.

"I'm glad you made it back in one piece," she said.

"Yeah, unlike someone."

She tried to scoff, but even that stung, pain shooting from her shoulder, across her collarbone, and up her neck.

"Yeah, back we go," he said, guiding her toward Cade's office. He put an arm under her shoulder to support her weight. "I'd carry you, but well—"

She flicked his ear with her finger. " _Hey_."

"Don't _hey_ me, Face. I'm a Lancer, not a goddamn Paladin. You want to be carried? Either shrink a few inches or start making friends with Behemoths."

She furrowed her brow.

"Too soon?"

"Too soon."

To Cade's credit, he was one of the few people in the last ten minutes that didn't look at her like one of her limbs was about to detach itself.

"Back so soon, Danvers?"

The Lancer smiled. "You know me, doc, can't keep away from a pretty face."

"I don't think the Knight will be so easily won over by your false flattery."

"Who said I was talking about Knight Grey?" He cast Cade a devious smile.

Grey unsuccessfully stifled a laugh as Cade rolled his eyes in response. Her ribs didn't appreciate the humour.

Cade laid her back on a gurney and rubbed something cold across her neck. She felt a quick prick and a familiar, tantalizing warmth. A moan escaped her throat as the Med-X flooded her system. The urge to lie back and sleep crossed her mind, but it was quickly silenced by the sound of fabric tearing. She managed to swivel her head to see Cade slicing through her flight suit with trauma shears.

 _There goes 50 caps_ , she thought before hissing with pain.

Cade tugged at the fabric, but it held fast to her skin, bound with dried blood and sweat. She grit her teeth as he worked, body craving another hit of Med-X with each probe and pinch.

A hand grasped hers, giving it a little squeeze.

"The Knight may appreciate some privacy, Lancer," Cade said calmly, hands working.

"It's fine," she replied through clenched teeth. "I'm sure it's nothing he hasn't seen before."

She winced as something rooted around in her skin. Cold tendrils danced across her ribs. Something metal clinked into a surgical tray.

"What, aren't worried about preserving your dignity, Face?" Danvers teased.

"No dignity left to preserve." She attempted to laugh but it came out as more of a yelp.

He squeezed her hand again.

Danvers talked as Cade worked, regaling her with stories from the Capital Wasteland. Nothing particularly useful or complex, but amusing anecdotes one might tell over a round of beers. Super Mutant wearing a dress, toting a Fat Man, and calling itself Darleen; an Initiate who spent a year living on Cram and whose pores excreted the smell of processed meat during firefights; one of the Lancer's getting so drunk on Moonshine the night before his final Vertibird evaluation that he saluted Lancer-Captain Kells in nothing more than his small clothes and a flight helmet.

"See, you say, 'one of the other Lancers', but I'm pretty sure that's just code for, 'I, Danvers, the closeted nudist'." Grey gave him a smirk.

He chuckled. "Anyone ever tell you you're too smart for your own good?"

"Once or twice."

Another needle prick from Cade and her throat began to rasp. The dehydration hit like a punch to the larynx. She hated the side effects of Rad-Away. The fact Cade knew to flush her system without her telling him she'd been exposed to radiation did have her wondering what physical symptoms she'd exhibited. For all she knew, she was glowing yellow.

"Lancer, the Knight will need some water. If you'd be so kind—"

"Yeah, yeah," he said, giving Cade a wink and a wave. "One purified water coming up." He headed toward the mess.

Cade helped Grey up into a sitting position as she wheezed. He injected a Stimpak into her abdomen, but the familiar burning and tightening of the skin was diminished by the Med-X. As he wrapped her mending wounds in gauze and tape, she caught herself wondering how many new scars she'd be touting by tomorrow.

A bright light shot into her left eye and she instantly recoiled.

"Knight, I need you to follow the light with your eyes."

She shielded her face with her hand. "If you're trying to see if I'm concussed, don't bother—I am."

The light flicked off.

"I see you have some medical training then. Was this standard procedure in your Vault?"

Grey met Cade's gaze. "I must really be concussed, because I don't remember telling you I was from a Vault."

"No," he said. "You didn't. Which was slightly neglectful noting the immunological differences between Vault dwellers and wastelanders. Luckily for you and I, 'neglect' isn't a word in Elder Maxson's vocabulary."

Grey also didn't remember telling Maxson she was from a Vault, but she did make her grand debut in a Vault 111 jumpsuit. She could forgive the faulty assumption. She could even use it to her advantage if she wanted. It was safer people thought she was a Vault dweller than a two-hundred-year-old popsicle. That's what Diamond City Radio kept referring to her as anyway: the Vault dweller. May as well embrace the title.

She straightened her posture, finally able to move without agony. The Stimpaks were working.

"Bit of a dangerous leap in logic to assume every person brave enough to wear blue and yellow spandex is from a Vault."

Cade lightly placed his fingertips behind her jaw, feeling along her lymph nodes. "I appreciate that you're new, Knight, but keeping secrets from us isn't a helpful way forward."

"And what makes you think I'm keeping secrets?"

A tired smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "That's not the question you should be asking."

Her eyes glinted. She was enjoying this game. "And what question should I be asking?"

"Ask what's preventing you from placing your trust in us."

"Oh that's easy."

Cade cocked a brow.

"Because trust gets you killed," Danvers interjected, rounding the corner with a plastic bottle. "Or so the old world songs say."

He tossed the water to Grey and she greedily tore off the cap, gulping it down.

Hopping from the gurney, she gave Cade a coy smile and a salute. "This was fun," she purred. "We should do it again soon."

He eyed her suspiciously. "For your sake, Knight, I hope you're joking."

She was.

Danvers matched her stride as she left the clinic.

"Now that you're all patched up and only bloody on the outside, care to chase that drink with a meal?"

She slide her hands around the sides of the forward ladder and gave Danvers a glance over her shoulder. "Sorry, got a date with the boss. How do I look?"

"Like you took on a hoard of Super Mutants and survived."

She shot him a playful look. "I'm sure you say that to all the girls."

"Only the interesting ones."

Her body dropped, cool metal gliding past her palms. As her feet landed on the Command Deck below, she rid the fake smile from her face, cheeks stiff and strained. She hated laughter. Hated the sound, hated the feel. Danvers enjoyed it though, fancied himself witty and a smooth-talker. So that's what she'd nurture, convincing him she liked his jokes, that his ruse was worth her time.

As her father always said, it never hurt to have an extra pawn on the board. Or a pilot in her pocket.


	13. Cards

CHAPTER 13  
Cards

"Outstanding work at Fort Strong, soldier." Maxson stood with his hands behind his back, the leather from his battlecoat taut across his shoulders.

His gaze flicked to her abdomen before returning to her face.

Grey didn't bother to shield her wounds. She could have feigned embarrassment or made some feeble attempt at covering her bruised ribs and the bloodied gauze. But that would've been a lie not worth weaving. She wanted Maxson to see the damage done. Wanted him to see that she'd bled for the mission. _His_ mission. After all, what was loyalty if not the willingness to sacrifice one's own flesh for another's ideals? That's what her husband had done. What so many of his friends had done. What Walsh had done. She doubted the game had changed that much since her time.

She stood to attention, arms crossed against the small of her back. "What happens at Fort Strong now?"

"Paladin Danse is supervising the transfer of the Fat Man warheads to the Prydwen. They'll provide quite an edge to our arsenal. I've also ordered a detachment to occupy the location and use it as a staging area to protect the eastern side of the airport."

His brow lifted, mouth no longer downcast. His version of a smile, Grey assumed.

"All-in-all," Maxson said, "you handed us quite a valuable location."

Grey raised her chin. "It was an honour fighting for the Brotherhood."

"I'm glad you feel that way, because our mission here has only just begun."

He took a step toward her and held out his hand. "In order to bring the Institute to its knees, we need to use every weapon at our disposal. I try to supply my soldiers with the best. That's why I'm giving you these."

He opened his fist to reveal what looked like a miniature flare. Grey gently lifted it from his palm. It was incredibly light, but she knew enough about military tech to not have that mislead her.

"Signal grenades can call a Vertibird to your location when you need aerial transport. Simply throw one to the ground and the Vertibird will hone in on the unique electromagnetic smoke it emits."

 _Great_ , she thought. _More Vertibirds._

"Thank-you, Elder. I'll make good use of them." Another lie.

"I expect that you will," he said, voice a strange mix of soothing tones and authoritative bite.

His mouth was somewhat of a curiosity to her she'd come to realize; the sounds it made, the meaning they held. She'd known many men of position and authority in her twenty-seven years, from Army Generals to State Senators to high-powered CEOs. They all had the same bark and privilege. Even when they veiled their tones in seduction and glibness, it was still there lurking: the expectation that everyone would listen and do their bidding because they were the most goddamn important person in that room. Except she didn't get that with Maxson. His sense of authority was quiet and cold. Distant perhaps, but strangely compelling.

Maybe that was a part of what his men saw, she decided. What inspired their confidence in a boy so young.

The Elder casually turned away, attention returning to the Commonwealth below. In the red hued room, it all but appeared to leer at them, twisted structures bathed in December sunlight.

"Now," he said, "I'm sure you're aware that Fort Strong was simply the first step towards the liberation of the Commonwealth. An even greater task lies ahead.

"By now, you've likely deduced that our arrival in the Commonwealth wasn't coincidental. We're here because of a unique energy reading recorded by Paladin Danse's recon team. According to our Scribes, the reading indicated a level of technology that only the Institute could achieve."

She'd forgotten about the energy readings. They were one of the first things Danse had mentioned to her when they met all those weeks ago. The reason his team had holed up in Cambridge. The reason she'd stumbled into their firefight. And again, it led to the Institute.

She was beginning to wonder if all roads in her life did.

"The moment this information came to light," Maxson continued, "our mission became clear: the Institute and everyone responsible for the creation of the synths must be eliminated, at all costs."

Grey held her tongue.

"To accomplish this goal, we need to locate the Institute's headquarters. I've had our Scribes meticulously searching the Commonwealth but they've come up empty-handed."

 _Little miracles_.

"Where do you want me to start, Elder?"

His eyes met hers in the reflection of the glass. "You seemed to have a vested interest in locating the Institute before we met, so I'm confident you'll travel in the right circles. If you discover a way in, I need you to report it to me immediately. Any questions, Knight?"

 _He doesn't know_ , she realized. About Virgil or the Glowing Sea.

Some part of her had suspected that Danse had fed Maxson bits of her story and circumstance. Danse had clearly given the Brotherhood something noting all the mentions of reports and how easily they'd accepted her sponsorship despite her being a relative anomaly. Of all the things for Danse to conceal from his commanding officer though… He'd harboured the one piece of intel Grey had given him that was integral to his mission.

That didn't sit right with her.

It wasn't to say she'd placed the Paladin on some pillar of incorruptibility, but he just didn't seem the type to bend the rules or place his own interests above the flock. Perhaps that was naive of her, but she could typically spot the conniving and the insincere a mile off. All she had to look for were pieces of herself. But she didn't see that in the Paladin. He was like her husband had once been, before Nate had ever met her, when he still believed in something. Before the people he trusted and loved tore him and themselves apart.

Or was she simply seeing what she wanted to see? Fragments of a man she never knew superimposed on the first post-apocalyptic figure that didn't make her feel so goddamn alien. The first person who reminded her of the way things once were, two hundred years ago. Ironic that it was something military that brought her comfort. To be drawn to the remnants of what she so vehemently hated—there was a special fucked up quality to that.

Maybe, she surmised, she was looking for ghosts where they didn't exist. Maybe the Paladin was just as corrupt as everyone else. And that would make him just as dangerous. She fought the smile tugging at her mouth. She could work with that.

She caught the Elder eyeing her and she straightened, bringing herself back to task. Back to the Institute.

"Are there any pre-war records about the Institute that might help us?" she asked.

"Our records indicate that the Institute was born from the remnants of a pre-war educational facility, the Commonwealth Institute of Technology."

She nearly dropped the signal grenade.

He continued, "The ruins of the facility are at the centre of the city, but we've already searched them thoroughly. The location appears to have been abandoned long ago, so it appears that the trail ends there. Anything else, Knight?"

She suddenly remembered how her fingers would trace the calligraphy on Nate's Bachelors of Engineering diploma, nails skimming CIT's blood red seal. Uneasiness settled in. She'd always teased Nate for keeping it hidden away in a box in their closet. He'd say it was just a piece of paper. Paper with meaning, she'd counter. Paper that was his ticket out of the military institution that had all but destroyed their lives.

 _All roads lead to the Institute_ , she found herself thinking.

All roads lead to Nate.

"What about those energy readings Paladin Danse's recon team detected?" she asked, needing to focus herself.

"Our Scribes are confident that the energy readings are from Institute technology due to the unusually high frequency, but the source is unknown. We're still detecting them on occasion, but by the time we send a team to investigate, they disappear." He furrowed his brow, looking away. "Just watch your step. I wouldn't be surprised if the energy readings were caused by some type of Institute weapon."

A weapon, maybe, but teleportation was likely the culprit. It would explain the short energy bursts and subsequently abandoned locations. The trick now was to figure out if she needed to tip her hand or keep it close to her chest.

She took a step forward, putting herself close enough to the Elder that he could smell the iodine soaking her skin.

"How much has Danse told you about me?"

Maxson swivelled his head, eyes sharp and questioning. "Excuse me, Knight?"

She took another step, placing herself firmly at his side.

The Elder was like her, she realized, disliking intimacy and any invasion of personal space. Proximity had its uses though, even when that use was to make a man's skin crawl.

"You said I have a 'vested interest' in finding the Institute. Why?"

He bristled. "You do realize you're verging on insubordination, Knight."

"And you're deflecting. I said I want to know _why_."

She expected him to snap at her, turn on her, loom over her. Men of power always did when pressed into a corner. Anything to exert their dominance, even if it meant divulging the details they wanted to bury deep. The details she wanted.

But instead he sighed, tension all but draining from his face.

She didn't anticipate that.

"I'd like to think I'd be overcautious, too, if I were in your shoes," he said quietly. "Vault in ruins, friends dead… child stolen."

She gave him no reaction. She couldn't. But she nevertheless had her answer: he knew.

"Don't mistake my tone for heartlessness," he all but murmured. "I'm sympathetic to your plight, Knight. And I know my talk of war likely panics you when our enemy harbours something of yours— _someone_. But you must also understand that I cannot and _will not_ compromise the safety of the Commonwealth and that of my brothers and sisters for one boy. And neither would you if you were in my shoes."

He had no idea what she would or wouldn't do. But let him think he did. Let him think he knew her and had the upper hand.

She set her jaw. "So where does that leave us?"

"Paladin Danse wants you with us on this, and I trust his judgement implicitly. So _I_ want you with us on this. And if that means I allow you to rescue your son before I give the attack order, then so be it. But in return…"

He turned to her, face stern.

"Sir?"

"In return," he said, "you find us our way in. Whatever it takes. And you'll have my word that your son is saved. Understood?"

Grey'd made her promise long ago to save Shaun by whatever means necessary. So she'd easily do as Maxson requested because it wasn't a request he needed to make. She was getting into the Institute one way or another. At least now she'd have the backing of an army. She'd have their resources and their Elder's support. If it wasn't so bittersweet, she almost would have smiled.

"If we're making a deal, then there's a few more details you need to know."

He listened intently as she told him of the Institute operative she'd tracked down and "interrogated" only four days before. She skirted the details as the two-month journey and relational technicalities were just that: details. Maxson was only interested in the facts: who the operative was, what she'd discovered, and who they needed to find. She'd left Dr. Amari and Nick out of her tale for obvious reasons. Better Maxson thought she'd questioned Kellogg at gunpoint at Fort Hagen than the lunacy of what had actually happened in the Memory Den.

"And what did you do with this operative after you finished questioning him?"

"I put a bullet through his skull."

"Good. Still…" The Elder's face clouded, irritation creeping along his jaw. "If the Institute has the capability to teleport its synths, we're in for quite a fight. There must be a way to tap into the teleport signal, and your mysterious lead in the Glowing Sea could provide us with the answer."

"Providing we can find him."

Maxson knit his brow in deliberation. "Even with our numbers, I cannot risk the lives of my men to do a blind search. We risk spreading ourselves too thin, and it would also leave the Prydwen susceptible to attack. We could do an arial scan but—" Something crossed his face. "Is that why…" He trailed off.

"Elder?"

"I think you need to speak with Paladin Danse," he said carefully, face still contemplative. "He submitted a request to reactivate an old op, one that may have been connected to the Glowing Sea, if memory serves."

An old operation? Danse had never mentioned anything about an op when she spilled her guts on the station roof. Had he been concealing intel from her, too? Her pulse quickened.

"In the interim," Maxson said, "if you need any assistance mitigating the radiation in that godforsaken location, speak to Proctor Teagan. I'm certain he'd be willing to help."

Radiation was the least of Grey's worries, but she appreciated the thought.

"Anything else, Elder?"

"No. You're dismissed."

Grey all but vaulted from the command deck and back up the ladder. She ignored the pull of her newly healed skin with each climbed rung. Skin healed, but deception festered. And the more she thought on it, the more irritated she became. That's what she deserved though. That was the transaction cost of blinding placing trust.

She clenched her jaw as fibres tore and blood beaded against her ribs.

She and the Paladin needed to have a little chat.


	14. Honeytrap

**CHAPTER 14**  
Honeytrap

Grey dropped her travel bags as the condo door shut behind her. She went through the ritual of throwing her keys onto the vanity, but caught her attention drifting toward the balcony doors.

There was nothing there but skyline drenched in dusk.

Which was what was supposed be there. Except her heart still hammered in her chest.

She'd decided her handler's little B&E last week had meant nothing to her. She couldn't let it mean anything. She couldn't let herself feel intimidated or scared. It was _her_ home, her supposed refuge. The one place where she could truly be herself—no pretences, no defences, no lies.

Except she was a fool to let herself think that way. Neither her handler nor their superiors understood such first world sentiments. And how could she expect them to understand? They'd all lost their home in a way, so why the hell would they respect hers? The condo was a lie, like so much of her life. Another piece of her grand American deception.

She walked toward the balcony doors, stilettos clicking with each step. Standing by the glass, she felt the press of the December cold. Below, streetlights flickered on one by one. Garish artificial trees flared to life, accompanied by blinding seasonal billboards depicting genetically engineered turkeys and holiday-flavoured Cram. The mere sight left a foul taste in her mouth.

Her intercom buzzed.

At least she assumed it was the intercom. It had only rang once before, years ago, after she'd bought the place.

She peered at it over her shoulder, thinking it likely to be a mistake. A delivery boy who called the wrong unit, a child bashing buttons blindly. But it continued to buzz, again and again, unrelenting.

She walked over and fumbled with the buttons.

"Hello?"

"You are a hard woman to track down, Lieutenant."

Grey paled.

"How did you get this address?"

He laughed. "I'd be happy to regale you with the tale, but I'm kinda freezing my ass off out here."

She ran her tongue across her teeth. She didn't like it. Didn't want him there. Didn't want anyone there. It was safer that way, for her and for others. That was her rationale at least.

"Come on, Lieutenant. I think my hands are turning blue."

She tried to run through her options, but her brain was foggy. She hadn't slept in two days. That, and her diet had only consisted of hotel coffee, red wine, and adrenaline since Friday. She was lucky to still be awake, let alone thinking.

There was the cafe across the street—no, too close to home. The restaurant—no, closed by now on a Sunday. The park—too cold, too many dark places to spy from. The lobby—too many gossipy neighbours and curious eyes. Then there was the security cameras. And where the fuck was her audio jammer?

She closed her eyes and massaged the bridge of her nose.

What a goddamn mess.

"Seventeenth floor. Unit at the end of the hall."

She buzzed him in.

She didn't bother with the door or her bags. Instead she walked to the bar and retrieved a tumbler and a bottle of rye. She'd never been a Scotch girl, much to her father's dismay. Didn't fancy the smokey aftertaste. Honestly, if she wanted her breath to reek of ashtray, she'd smoke a cigarette. She didn't want it from her whiskey.

She'd had a boyfriend back in New York, some stockbroker with old money and zero common sense, who once accused her of having "common tastes", like he thought it was an insult. He'd ply her with rare cask Macallan and hors d'âge cognac whilst in public, determined to have her conform to his gentry tastes. Not that he ever liked what he consumed. She'd seen how his throat struggled to swallow the $1000 swill that he forced past his lips. Another hypocrite, like so many of his ilk. All appearances and lies without an ounce of substance.

Back then, she couldn't conceptualize denying herself simple pleasures for fear of social repercussion. She'd thought it false and pathetic. A smirk pulled at her mouth. How things had changed.

Everything she did now was through the guise of conforming to norms and expectations. Act a certain way, don't draw suspicion, be the person they wanted her to be, the person they needed her to be. Half the time, she couldn't even remember who she was before all this. But she knew she liked rye. That was something at least. It had to be if she wanted to stay sane.

A rapping sounded as she poured herself a dram. She knocked it back before telling him the door was open.

From her periphery, she could see the Sergeant tentatively step over her luggage, eyes peering from side to side in the near-dark. She filled her glass halfway.

"How do you like your whiskey, Sergeant?"

"I don't drink."

She simpered. "We both know that's a lie. So let's try that again."

She could all but hear him kiss his teeth. Even with her back turned, she could sense his impatience. He'd tried to mask it earlier with humour, but that would only last so long. He had wanted her to be at the door when it opened, wanted to fly into whatever conversation or concern had brought him there. But that would be predictable and Grey wasn't having it. If they were to converse, it was to be on her terms.

"Neat," he finally replied, voice terse.

She knew that of course. Strange the things that were recorded in a soldier's personnel file. She passed him his drink and lightly clanked her glass against his before wandering toward the lounge.

Her skirt travelled up her thighs as she crossed her legs, skin sticking to the cool leather of the sofa. She rolled her neck as the rye brought some heat to her throat. She relished in the feeling as it burned its way down, the taste and sensation a perfect dose of pleasurable pain.

The Sergeant took a seat across from her, blue eyes questioning and muscles tense.

"Where have you been?"

She cocked a brow. "That's funny. I can't remember hiring you as my personal assistant or chauffeur. So I'm not sure why my whereabouts are any concern of yours."

She watched the irritation creep up his neck.

"It's been a week, Grey. A week since I last heard from you, a week since—"

"Are you really that impatient? Or is this inexperience I'm sensing?"

Sergeant Anders balked. "What are you—"

"Doing? Implying?" She leaned forward. "This isn't a quick and dirty operation, Sergeant. I can't snap my fingers and piece it all together. Not with my superiors breathing down my neck and Cantrell constantly testing my so-called allegiance to the goddamn hierarchy of corruption." She snapped her jaw shut, realizing her mistake.

She shouldn't had said that last bit. She shouldn't had done a lot of things granted, the first of which was allowing herself to get tangled up in the Sergeant's little detective game. But it was too late for that now. It was too late for a lot of things.

Grey took another swig.

"My point," she said, "is that this is going to take time. And as long as Walsh keeps his mouth shut and James stays in a coma, time is one thing we have."

His eyes darkened. "Except this doesn't feel like a _we_ , Lieutenant. You promised to help me and then _nothing_. No meetings, no phone calls, no letters. What am I supposed to do with that? Sit and stew in my own anxiety?"

"I told you that you needed to trust me."

He laughed. "Trust. Right. Well, I tried that, telling myself you'd be in touch. _Trust her, Nate._ Sure, she has the reputation of a three-headed snake, but I'm sure she's not half as venomous as everyone says. Except you never did get in touch, and then I call your office and they tell me you aren't even in the goddamn _state_. So, yeah, that line isn't going to work, Lieutenant. Not this time."

He was enticing when he was angry, she realized. Muscles strained against his clothes, blue eyes pale, pupils dilated, handsome jaw taunt. She imagined running her fingertips across his scars, digging her nails into his back. A shiver ran from her groin to her navel and she couldn't help but smile.

"Whitehorse."

His brow furrowed. "What?"

"The Yukon."

"I'm sorry, I don't—"

"You asked me to find out where your service records say you were deployed from 2072 to 2074. It was Whitehorse. Natural resources defence taskforce. Your records state you frequently had run-ins with 'environmental terrorists' attempting to sabotage the pipeline. I'm assuming that's the politically correct term for Canadian nationals displeased with Americans syphoning their oil. You should be pleased—you even got two commendations for your service, you big hero you." She took a sip from her glass.

He just stared. "What—how… How did you—"

"A copy of the file is in my bag if you don't believe me."

"I believe you, I'm just…" He pressed a hand to his eyes before ranking it up his forehead and through his hair. By the time he looked up, Grey was standing over him, holding a brown file folder at eye level. He tentatively took it, the pages all but spilling onto his lap. Pages of lies. Operations he never ran, soldiers he never commanded, people he never killed. His stomach twisted and a cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck.

"Where did you get this?"

Grey had returned to her seat, legs again crossed and thighs left exposed. Her empty tumbler dangled from her manicured grip. Her nails were shorter than he remembered, cut back to the quick.

She gave the slightest shrug to his question. "From the National Archives, obviously."

He closed the file folder only to see the Archives' embossed emblem.

"You know what I mean," he said. "I doubt even you can walk in and request my service records."

He was wrong about that. Grey could have easily submitted a request and had the files mailed to Boston, but that would have left a paper trail. First she'd toyed with forging a requisition form from another judge advocate stationed in the Boston office, but it still seemed too close to home. Too reckless. She was the one tied to Sergeant Anders, after all. If something went wrong, all eyes would turn to her, even if the paperwork implicated another lawyer. They all knew how easy it was to frame someone; they did it all the time.

No, Grey had to be smarter than that. So she'd booked a return trip to New York under her own name, casually mentioning to a paralegal that she was visiting her family for the weekend. And she got on that train, but after an hour in Grand Central, she disappeared into a Fallon's dressing room and traded her designer pencil skirt and stilettos for combat boots, jeans, and a beret. She'd then bought a ticket to DC with cash and didn't return to NYC until an hour before her return train to Boston, two days later.

"You'd be surprised what I can do, Sergeant, when I put my mind to it," she said with a purr.

"I'm serious, Lieutenant. How did you get this?"

The how wasn't really important though, not to him. The crux of it was that he thought her an amateur. Sure, she was cunning, but she was still young. Still naive. Still able to make a crucial mistake. Her lips twitched. If only he knew who she really was. _What_ she really was.

"I have my ways," she replied. "Rest assured in that."

"Is there any possible way that—"

He rambled through a dozen queries, pace fuelled by anxiety. She'd produced results and all his mind could fathom was the million ways in which their investigation could come back to bite them in the ass. A million ways in which she could have fucked up. Except she hadn't fucked up, and they hadn't even accomplished anything yet. Grey could only wonder if the Sergeant was up to this supposed investigation. How would he react when they actually had tangible evidence? When they were eventually confronted with an inevitable truth? When they actually spoke to Walsh?

She sighed. She was too tired for this.

"If anyone goes snooping, the file was copied by a nobody intern who will have moved onto another dead-end gig five-times over by the time the Archives notices it. _If_ they notice it. And before you ask, the intern has no ties to me or anyone I know. Satisfied?"

Grey had spent all of Friday lingering in a cafe in front of the National Archives, face buried in a scarf, black hair tucked up into the confines of her beret. She'd watched the staff come and go, ordering pastries and coffee, credentials proudly hung from skinny necks, and finally she'd picked her mark. She'd followed from afar that night. From work to supermarket to home to the speakeasy, if that's what it could be called. Such a pathetic creature she'd chosen, so desperate to be wanted, to be loved. They made it all the easier; it was practically bittersweet.

The Sergeant was quiet for a moment, considering. Finally he moved, walking towards her, folder in hand.

"I could have helped you, you know. All you had to do was ask."

Grey's eyes scrolled from the file to his face.

"You weren't exactly her type."

"What?"

Grey smiled as she lightly plucked the folder from his hand.

"The intern," she said. "You weren't her type."

Grey had approached the girl on Saturday night. The intern had sat at the end of the bar, her unremarkable face hidden behind chunky glasses and frizzy waves. Her eyes had dashed from side to side, watching the other women operate, how they'd lean into one another, hands flirting with exposed skin, laughs being kissed into long, luscious necks. Grey could see how the girl squirmed in the cool confines of the dark, so desperate to be wanted and touched, yet so likely to be left alone.

Grey didn't approach her directly. That would have been suspicious. No, she sat at the bar and hollered for the bartender, quibbling over drink prices and ordering the cheapest wine on the menu. She'd laid a beat-up thrift store camera on the bar and ran her hands through her dirty blonde wig. She had looked the part of bohemian arts major, a mix of cultured and wild. She'd casually brought the intern into her conversations, asking her about modern art and the state of politics. The girl was so desperate to be acknowledged, she never noticed as Grey kept plying her with drinks, kept inching her stool closer. All it took was for Grey to brush the girl's hair from her face and she knew she was hers.

Hands had groped and mouths hungered as they left the speakeasy. Names were never exchanged. They'd flagged down a cab, hands clutching at each other's clothes with anticipation as the driver looked on. The girl was desperate, all but tearing Grey's bohemian rags from her frame as they entered the rundown studio apartment. A lamp broke as they tumbled through the door, but the intern didn't seem to care as she led Grey to the bed.

They'd fucked until morning, orgasms paced with boxed wine and ice water. As the sun began to rise, Grey reached into her bag and dropped a benzo into the intern's drink. She was out in minutes, naked body tangled in sweat-soaked sheets.

Grey had fought the urge to shower, the intern's sickly scent of old books and lavender enough to make her want to hurl. She'd forced herself into the girl's drab clothes and strung her stolen credentials around her neck. The security guard never bothered to check Grey's pass or photo, not at 7 AM. He ushered her into the Archives without a care.

In less than an hour, Grey had copied the file, returned to the girl's studio, changed, and left a note thanking her for the hospitality. The intern would wake up groggy, sore, and none the wiser. It was better that way, for both of them.

The Sergeant's lips twitched into a smile. "I'm not sure if I'm incredibly turned on right now or incredibly disappointed."

"Both are good," Grey purred in reply, pushing herself to her feet. She leaned into the Sergeant's ear, lips tracing the bend in his cartilage and hand sliding down the inside of his thigh. "I prefer to keep a man on edge."

He grasped her wrist as she attempted to move away. His eyes memorized the curve of her lip, mouth inching toward her face. She imagined the press of his lips, the quiver of his body against her. Except she turned her head at the last minute, letting him bury his face in her hair. The illusion broke.

She cleared her throat and he release her wrist. Stepping away, she paced the lounge, tapping the file against her leg.

"You aren't the only one, you know. Walsh, James—their records also show a series of obscure squad names and deployment zones. Alaska, Nevada, even Marrakesh. Someone got sloppy though, because they didn't match the assignments to Fox Company's movements for those years. Granted I assume they didn't think anyone would look too closely at individual soldiers' files." She continued to tap the papers.

"So what's our next move?"

That was a good question. Grey'd had a million thoughts as she'd read the files on the train. Why was there a cover-up? Who was behind the cover-up? And what did this have to do with the attempted murder? Was Walsh being framed? If so, why? And by whom? Then there was the possibility that the fake files were unrelated to the shooting. Sure, it was unlikely, but maybe Walsh did attack his former squad mate. But even if he did, why? And why now, two years after their last tour together?

"Do you like pizza?"

The Sergeant faltered. "What?"

"I'm starved and I can't think when I'm hungry. So do you like pizza?"

"Sure?"

"That didn't sound very convincing."

He laughed. "Then yes, ma'am."

"What did I tell you about calling me ma'am?"

"Hmm, that it got you all hot and bothered?"

Grey rolled her eyes. "Keep this up and I'll order pineapple on the pizza."

"I'm allergic to pineapple."

"I know," she teased.

He gave her a look. "You're scary, you know that, right?"

She cast him a flirty smile. "You have no idea."

Grey continued to pace after placing the order, tapping the file with each step. She and the Sergeant spitballed theories and ideas. He told her about some of the operations his squad participated in whilst in Anchorage. On the whole, nothing stood out as noteworthy. There was the occasional civilian casualty, the occasional barracks brawl. But never with James or Walsh. From the stories told, those two were upstanding soldiers and good friends; doling out appropriate amounts of support and light touch hazing. They had no conflicts with other staff, gave no backtalk to their commander officer. They were practically benign.

As the buzzer rang for the second time that evening, Grey could feel her stomach churning with anticipation. She jumped to her feet, papers scattering, to wait by the door for their pizza.

"What I don't get," she said, "is how Walsh was identified as the prime suspect. From the files I've—let's say— _borrowed_ from Mitchell, there's no indication of where Walsh's name came from. It just appeared two weeks ago, like it was plucked from thin air. So is someone in the organization trying to frame him, or did we get an anonymous tip along the way? And if we did get a tip, when did it come in, and where did it come in from?"

The delivery man's knock cut her thoughts short. She practically yanked the pizza box from his hand and threw a hundred dollar bill at him. Kicking the door shut, she walked back towards the Sergeant whilst shoving a slice of pepperoni into her mouth. If the Sergeant wanted to complain about her manners, he could go find himself another devious JAG Corps officer.

His expression wasn't one of hunger though. It was one of query, one of hesitation.

It stopped her in her tracks.

"You… don't know," he said tentatively.

She narrowed her gaze. "I don't know _what_?"

"Walsh, he…" Sergeant Anders sighed and raked a hand back through his hair. "An argument was overheard at Fort Hagen three days before the shooting. James had been running the trails behind the base. I'm not sure if Walsh ran into him or confronted him, but heated words were exchanged, and James then threw Walsh to the ground before running back to the Fort."

Grey swallowed her food, appetite suddenly gone. "And how do you know about this?"

"Because I'm the one that overheard them." Nate looked up at her, face gaunt and blue eyes conflicted. "I'm the one that gave Walsh to Lieutenant Mitchell."


	15. Confronted

CHAPTER 15  
Confronted

The hammering of fists against metal woke him from his daze.

He couldn't call it a nap. Napping required actual sleep, and Danse could barely remember the last time that had happened.

His head pounded as he swung his legs over the side of his bunk. The world spun and blood rushed. He pressed his eyes closed.

More hammering. The doorframe shuddered.

Danse pushed himself to his feet and eyed the vial of Med-X sitting on his desk. He'd found it in his bag as he unpacked. Haylen's doing, he suspected.

He'd eventually told her about the headaches, not the full extent, but he'd said enough to raise concern apparently. Initially he had decided that there was no value in distracting the medic while his squad suffered heavy casualties, but the pain had finally become too much for him to hide. She'd clocked that he wasn't sleeping much, something he so diligently tried to conceal. And then she'd clocked that something else wasn't quite right as well.

"You push yourself too hard," she'd said with a gentle smile after he'd allowed her to examine him. "You're only human, Danse. Remember that."

He knocked the Med-X into the waste bin.

He didn't need it, he told himself. He wasn't that weak.

He opened the door.

A figure rushed past, smelling of iodine and iron. Danse instantly sobered and faced the intruder.

Grey's chest heaved as she stood by his bed, body tense and tattered. All he could see was damage. The bloodied gauze taped across her ribs, flight suit stained red and sliced apart. The left side of her hair was matted with oxidized blood. Some of it had dried along her scalp and neck, disappearing beneath her collar. Her cheek was lightly shadowed, and he could see where the bruises had been before a Stimpak had been applied.

He didn't understand.

He couldn't remember her being harmed. He'd thought she'd been covered. Protected.

He thought he'd done his job.

"What game are you playing?"

He blinked, taken aback. "I'm sorry, soldier, wh—"

"No," she snapped. "No solider-this, no Knight-that. Talk to me like a goddamn _person_ and tell me what game you're playing here."

The gauze tightened with each laboured breath, tape pulling at the pale skin stretched along her ribs.

He didn't understand.

"There isn't a game, Kni—"

Her green eyes bore into him. He could see the distrust. The distain.

"I don't know what you've been told, or what you think, but no one is playing a game here." He tried to carefully take a step toward her, but he could see how her body tensed, resulting in a step back.

"Right," she said with a weary laugh. "Of course you aren't playing a game. Those energy signals you were investigating? It's not like I told you what their origin and purpose was. It's not like I gave you the answer you so desperately sought. _Except I did_." Her eyes darkened. "I gave you critical intel, and then you just so happen to _not_ pass it onto your commanding officer? Give me a fucking break."

So that's what this was about. If she'd just let him explain—

"And if that wasn't rich enough, it then comes to light you've been reactivating old ops. Ones relevant to the one godforsaken place you know I need to go." She threw up her hands. "So what am I supposed to think? That you still have my back? That your 'promise' to help me find my son was worth more than any other falsity and lie?"

"It wasn't a lie."

She laughed again, the sound cruel and mocking. "Right. Of course. Then let's have it. Come on, Paladin. Tell me what's really going on here. Tell me why it was okay to tell Maxson my son is missing but not okay to tell him Institute operatives can teleport onto his ship at any fucking second and blow him and his soldiers to kingdom come."

So that's what this was about.

He'd exposed her and she was feeling vulnerable, lashing out at the source of the leak. Lashing out to get back some semblance of control.

"The Prydwen is safe, Knight."

Her brow furrowed.

"Before you returned to us, we'd already made contact with the Citadel back in the Capital Wasteland. Even though we didn't know the nature of the signals, we knew the frequency and we suspected the source. As such, the Brotherhood were advised to use cautionary counter measures should they enter the Commonwealth. The Prydwen herself is fitted with an electromagnetic shield, making us impervious to hostile signals and broadcasts. So if the Institute wants on, they'll have to board us the old fashioned way. And, as you can imagine, they'd be in for one hell of a fight."

Quiet consideration was his reward. Her eyes were still sharp, critically watching, assessing, but he didn't expect much else. Danse knew little of the world before the war. Sure, there were some salvaged archives, broken artifacts, faded photos and paintings, but it had never seemed real. Cities without rubble, coastlines bathed in green, store shelves lined with fresh packets of food—he couldn't visualize it.

What he could see was how differently Grey's mind worked. She didn't think like a wastelander or a scavver. She didn't think like a soldier either, or a raider. She wasn't observant of her environment, but she was observant of people. Was that what her world was like? One where the biggest threat was other people's intentions and not their actions? He wanted to ask her, but it wasn't the time. He wondered if it ever would be.

"As for who you are and what you told me…" He sighed, gathering his thoughts. "I know you told me those things in confidence. And I broke that confidence. But you have to understand, it was the only way I could get you aboard the Prydwen."

Grey doubted that, but she continued to listen.

"The Brotherhood is incredibly selective of the recruits it accepts, and recruiting during a time of recon and conflict, it's… frowned upon. Typically you'd serve as an Initiate for a number of months before being field tested and promoted. But…"

 _You were helpful. You were needed. No, you were wanted._

"But I was down half my squad, and you were the most viable option. That and you knew the Commonwealth. It was an advantage we'd need, hence my recommendation that you be fast tracked to Knight."

"You still haven't explained why you told Maxson about Shaun."

"Because my request was going to be rejected."

Grey knit her brow. "What?"

"The circumstances were irrelevant. You could have single-handedly retrieved the transmitter from ArkJet and they still would have asked you to serve your time as Initiate and be properly inducted into the fold." He broke eye contact, voice quieting. "That night on the roof, I was trying to find a way to tell you that, despite my recommendation, you were unlikely to get a promotion once we docked. But then, what you told me... I knew my instincts were right about you, and I knew you'd be an asset to us. I also knew Elder Maxson would agree."

"You could have asked. Explained what was going on."

Yes, he could of. But he didn't, and even now he wasn't sure why.

"If it helps, I operated on the principle of least harm. I radioed ahead and submitted an addendum to my report. I told them you were a Vault dweller and that you'd been tracking the Institute for personal reasons. I told them you were smart and resourceful and knew the terrain. And, initially, it was sufficient."

"Except Maxson knew there was more."

He had. He'd come to Danse after the address, exchanging greetings and commendations. But only so much small talk could be forced before the question was asked: "So, why have we actually recruited her, Paladin?"

"He doesn't know you were frozen," Danse said lowly. "Just that the Institute killed your husband and abducted your son."

A parent looking to save their child, a lover out for revenge—all good motives and drivers. The kind of motivation Maxson could understand from his time with Lyons, from his time with the Lone Wanderer. Or at least Danse had banked on that. Fortunately, he wasn't wrong.

"That still doesn't explain why you kept critical intel to yourself."

Hadn't it? Didn't she understand? Except the words didn't come as he tried to explain, because he himself didn't understand it. He didn't yet understand that everything he did, he did for her.

"I assessed it unwise to start a panic until your intel could be corroborated," he said sternly.

Grey didn't believe that; her expression told him as much, but she didn't challenge him. At least not on that.

"And the old op, how do you plan to explain that away?"

Her words made him uncomfortable. He felt exposed somehow, and he wasn't sure why. He hadn't seen this side to her before. Previously she'd seemed either task-focused or cautiously curious. Her eyes were fixed on him though, green irises glinting like those of a savage mutt. His instincts told him there was danger there, but he couldn't reason why.

"When we spoke on the roof two nights ago, something you said about the Glowing Sea… it reminded me of a briefing I'd read before my squad set out for the Commonwealth several months back. Something related to Recon Squad Artemis."

Grey's gaze narrowed. "Artemis?"

"I believe I mentioned it the night we met. That my team wasn't the first to be sent to the Commonwealth. The last squad went in three years ago." Danse paused, expression solemn. "They never reported back. Officially, they're missing—presumed dead."

"Was there a rescue mission?"

Danse shook his head. "No. The Brotherhood doesn't have the resources or the manpower to conduct a search like that. Everyone who signs up for a recon mission knows the risks. Our lives depend on our training and each other. But if a team is lost, we honour those who give their lives in the line of duty."

"I don't see what this has to do with the Glowing Sea," Grey said bluntly.

"Like Gladius, Artemis was tasked with investigating the Commonwealth and searching for valuable and dangerous technologies. Artemis had a secondary objective, however: surveying the Commonwealth, including the Glowing Sea."

Something flickered across her face, only for a moment. He couldn't discern what it was, but it stirred something in him. Something hopeful.

"As Brotherhood soldiers, we have a responsibility to find out what happened to them, if we can. That's why I spoke to Maxson. Officially, we couldn't go looking for them without a direct order. But if there's a chance they're alive, there's a chance they have information on the Glowing Sea. Maybe even a map."

He could see her mind at work, expression morphing and head tilting. But then it stopped and her face sobered. "It's been three years, Danse. They could be anywhere by now."

 _They could be dead._

He knew that. Of course he knew that. That's why the operation had been inactive all this time. Presumed dead until there was evidence to the contrary. But Artemis was their only lead. No matter how determined Maxson was to find the Institute, not even he would risk his chapter's lives by blindly scouring the Glowing Sea. It was a fool's task, and he couldn't endanger his men like that. He wouldn't.

"Their inception point was in the hills, near Malden," Danse said assuredly. "We can ship out tomorrow morning, survey the area, and establish a search pattern. There may be a chance…" He didn't finish that thought.

Grey pressed a hand to her eyes and dropped to his bed, one leg curled up underneath her.

He took a tentative step toward her, again unsure.

Her mouth twisted into a smile as she removed her hand, eyes focused on the metal ceiling above.

"I was so fucking sure," she uttered, "so sure you were trying to screw me over or that you had your own agenda or some nonsense."

She met his gaze, her eyes having lost their previous ferocity. "But you're not that kind of person, are you?"

He didn't know how to answer that, didn't know if he should even try.

"Sometimes," she said wistfully, "I forget that not everyone is like me. Sometimes… Well." She shrugged, pushing herself back to her feet. She walked toward him then, standing before him and lightly cocking her head. She lifted her hand as if she were to reach for him, elegant fingers extending. He could all but feel the flutter of them against his cheek, but she pulled away, folding her fingers into her palm.

"You're a good man, Paladin, and don't let me ever tell you otherwise."

Only as the metal door shut behind him did he exhale.

Tentatively he lifted his hand to his face, still feeling the ghost of her nails on his skin. A shiver ran down his spine and his gut churned hollow.

He didn't know what to make of her. Didn't know where to start.

Even as he laid back on his bunk and buried his head in his pillow, flashes of her danced through his mind. The curve of her mouth, the harrowed glint to her eye. Her cold yet compelling stance. And then there was her mind, its complexities, its workings, its thoughts. Untrusting, conniving, determined.

He wasn't sure if he was frightened of her or impressed.

And that, he realized, was the problem.


	16. Foolhardy

**CHAPTER 16**  
Foolhardy

Morning hit her like a freight train. The sudden burst of artificial light, dozens of bodies leaping from groaning cots, sheets being stripped, boots being slapped on and tied. A Knight-Captain paced along the bunks, snapping soldiers to attention and barking commands.

Grey hated being rushed. Hated being ordered around even more. The concussion likely wasn't helping her mood or improving her already dismal levels of patience.

She begrudgingly crawled from beneath the covers and slid her bare feet into her boots. Her balance still wasn't stellar and her hearing was still shot, but that made it all the easier to ignore the Knight-Captain buzzing around her head.

She let herself be mindlessly herded from the bunks to the mess to the showers. It was easy enough to turn her brain off—not that it was very active at the crack of dawn—and follow the others. Only as a blast of cold water struck her back did it occur to her that she was standing naked in a room with roughly three dozen young women and men. It wasn't that Grey disliked nudity or had any concept of modesty—she didn't—but it was a strange sight to sober to.

She ran a bar of soap along her arms as she surveyed the room. There were few, if any, wayward looks or lustful stares. No groping hands, no demeaning wolf whistles. It was all business. Bodies stripping and dressing, faces at an impasse, the only smiles coming from lighthearted teasing and jokes. Someone snapped a towel against another's thigh and howling laughter filled the room. It was… foreign.

Sex and temptation had always been forms of currency for Grey. Where there was desire and forbidden fruit, there was opportunity. And with the continued objectification of women in 2077, sex and seduction were two of the few tools women like Grey had to manipulate an already unbalanced playing field. Sure, Grey could be accused of being a bad feminist, and maybe she was, but sometimes the only way to get ahead in an unjust society was to use what little power one had to the fullest. And one thing about people with power and position was that they felt so entitled to anything and everything that they rarely noticed when their entitlement was used against them. Grey had always banked on that, and with few exceptions she had always banked well.

There was no currency in flesh with this Brotherhood though, at least not that she'd seen. There was too much respect, too much kinship, and too little inequality.

 _Not the old boys club the military used to be_ , she caught herself thinking as the last of the water drained from the tank. It really was a strange new world.

Grey rustled a hand through her drying hair as she strode from the head towards the maintenance bay. The fabric of her new flight suit stuck to her damp skin, pulling against her upper thighs with each step. Another 50 caps gone. At this rate, she'd be owing Teagan money. Two suits in twenty-four hours did not bode well for her already dismal cap stash. Maybe she could work out an equipment loan scheme with him, or maybe there was a—

She halted as she reached Bay 3, brow furrowing.

Well _that_ wasn't right.

A Scribe walked past, clearly seeing her confused expression. "Something the matter, Knight?"

"Where's my power armour?"

He turned, looking at the suit propped in Bay 3. "Right there?"

"Yeah, except last I checked my armour had about 200 shotgun pellets embedded in its chestplate. And this one? This one—well, it _has_ a chestplate." Christ, she was eloquent in the morning.

The Scribe reached behind him and grabbed a clipboard from the parts shelf. "According to the log, your armour was repaired at 23:30 last night."

"On whose authority?" Which was her not-so-subtle way of asking on whose dime. Luckily her morning brain was smart enough not to let her mouth be that blatant, but just barely.

The Scribe's eyes scrolled the log again, the slightest furrow forming before he shoved the clipboard under his arm. "One higher than yours. Now if that's everything, Knight?" He didn't wait for a response before walking away.

Grey stepped into the bay and ran her hand along the repaired chestplate. The insignia was freshly painted and still tacky under her fingertips.

Her armour was repaired on Danse's authority, she realized. No one else would have bothered to examine her equipment or knew she was shipping out this morning. If Grey hadn't been all spitfire and spite yesterday, she would have had enough sense to seek repairs herself. But well… She could blame the concussion, but that was a convenient lie. She'd let her mind work overtime, finding challenge and treachery where it didn't exist. She'd also made herself look a fool in front of her commanding officer, which hurt her pride more than anything. Grey didn't like being wrong. It always left an uncomfortable sting.

As she circled her armour, she couldn't help but wonder if the Paladin was looking out for her specifically. She wanted to think he did this for all the soldiers in his squad, but the more likely outcome was that he knew she was somehow unprepared. She wasn't a soldier, didn't have the discipline or the forethought or the training, but she was supposed to act like she did. Be the asset to the Brotherhood the Paladin argued she'd be. Except he _knew_ she was a fake, and now he was treating her exactly like the fake she was. She shouldn't have been surprised really, no matter how badly it bruised her ego.

Her suit hissed as it released. Grey gingerly slid her legs into the frame, still unsure of her balance. The metal was cold to the touch. She clenched her eyes closed as she waited for the suit to steal, the irrational part of her brain always fearing the frame would nip her skin or pull her hair. Or something worse.

She opened her eyes to the momentary darkness before her overhead display flared to life. The screen flickered as her Pip-Boy synced with the onboard computer. She felt a slight sting in her left arm and suddenly her biometrics appeared along the display, heartbeat slightly elevated but strong. The sting reminded her of yesterday when she'd spotted the Super Mutant with the missile launcher. A lesser sensation but same place. She needed to ask one of the Scribes about her Pip-Boy next time she had a free moment, figure out what the hell those calculations were and what was actually causing the needleprick-like pain. Sure, she probably should have queried half this shit before she clasped the damned thing on her arm two months back, but circumstances hadn't exactly had her looking for an instruction manual, just a way out of that frozen, underground nightmare.

She headed for the flight deck.

After nearly twenty-four hours onboard the Prydwen, natural light burned. Even filtered through the display, her eyes brimmed with tears. The smell of Boston's harbour mixed with rotting coolant was an equal assault on the senses.

The bunker door slammed shut behind her and she crossed the flight deck to the one prepped Vertibird. Her heart rate continued to rise as she approached, the hum of the fusion drive only seeming to add to her anxiety. She needed to be stronger than that. It was pathetic, no matter her damage.

She begrudgingly hauled herself abroad, only to have Dogmeat leap at her and nearly topple her back out and off the gangway. She grabbed the netting as the world swam around her, suit taking control and stabilizing her stance.

She shot the dog a look which she knew he couldn't see due to her helmet, but he nevertheless began to sulk, ears flattened to his head and posture sheepish. The dog was too goddamn smart for his own good. And manipulative, too.

"Aww, poor Dogmeat," a familiar voice cooed. "Did the big mean Vault dweller hurt your feelings?"

The Shepherd whined in response.

Grey rolled her eyes. "Stop putting ideas in my dog's head, Danvers."

"And a good morning to you, too, Face."

The Lancer poked his grinning mug around the cockpit, wisps of blond hair escaping his flight helmet.

"So," she said, straightening her shoulders, "are you the only Lancer aboard this airship or are you the only one unlucky enough to keep pulling the short straw to cart my ass around?"

"Well, if you're looking for someone to do a little more than just cart that ass of yours I'd be happy to—"

A throat was hastily cleared.

Danvers shifted, quickly clocking its origin. His cheeks burned red as he fumbled a salute. "G-good morning, sir!"

" _Smooth_ ," Grey whispered over the onboard radio.

Danvers' wide eyes shot to her, begging her to shut up.

"Lancer," a rough voice greeted from the gangway. The armour-clad frame then turned toward Grey. "Knight."

She gave a nod. "Morning, Paladin."

Danse pulled himself aboard in a single, swift motion, taking position by the minigun. He seamlessly swivelled the barrel and feed in a fresh belt with the efficiency and skill of a man who had done this too many times before.

Danvers sat immobilized. The silence was so palpable Grey was convinced a single utterance would have the Lancer shitting a brick. She grinned like a fool beneath her helmet.

Grey didn't mind silence, even an awkward one, but as it ticked along even she was beginning to pity Danvers. For all his backtalk to Cade, the Paladin seemed to be evoking a very different response in him. Peculiar that.

Danse slammed the gun's firing pin back into place and engaged the clutch.

"To answer your question, Knight, Lancer Danvers has, for the interim, been assigned to support any initiatives under my direct command. Whether this constitutes 'drawing the short straw', I cannot say." If it hadn't been for Danse's deadpan delivery, Grey would have thought he was joking.

She burst into laughter, disrupting both men's unease.

"So Danvers," she teased, "care to provide clarification on that assessment?"

Danvers cast her another uneasy look before pulling it into check and replacing it with a grin. He knew she'd offered him a lifeline and he was damn well going to take it.

"Well, Knight, you can't place too much importance on Prydwen shuttlebutt. Last guy who did believed the iguana bits were actually made of iguana."

Grey paused. "Wait, what are iguana bits actually made of?"

Another silence passed between the men.

"You, uh, haven't eaten any lately, have you, Knight?"

"You haven't answered my question, Danvers," Grey pressed.

A low chuckle sounded over the radio as the Paladin anchored himself behind the minigun. "If you want to keep your breakfast down, Knight, you're better off not knowing."

"Yes, sir," she replied, knowing when to leave well enough alone. Whatever the answer, she was suddenly feeling fortunate that her only foray into Wasteland cuisine was Takahashi's noodles.

The conversation came easier after that, the Lancer providing brief updates on the state of the Capital Wasteland during Danse's deployment. It was a welcome distraction as they detached from the Prydwen and experienced the momentary dive towards the airport terminal below. Grey decided she would never get used to that.

Much of the Lancer's talk meant little to her. Something about Jefferson Memorial patrols and ongoing tensions with Underworld, whatever or whoever that was. Someone named Cross was still missing, although the men seemed quite intent on using every word but missing to describe him or her. Sightings of someone called the Lone Wandered also appeared to have dried up. Grey could only think of the chorus to Dion's "The Wanderer" but that association was quickly squashed when a few female pronouns were thrown around. Then again, maybe she, too, was into "squeezing" the girls as Dion infamously crooned. Clearly no one knew her name with a nickname like that, so top marks there.

Grey wistfully looked out the Vertibird as they traveled over Revere Beach. The edges were littered with dilapidated boats and cracked tires, but the sand was still a stunning ivory-beige. She and Nate had gone there once in the winter. It was after she'd found out she was pregnant. After they decided what to do. They stood in silence along the shore, February frost and pools of snow piled along the boardwalks. Night had settled in, the cold blowing in off the ocean and hitting her face like blades of ice.

She'd wanted nothing more than to throw herself into that black water. Which was a stupid compulsion. She hadn't been suicidal. Just disenfranchised. Just lost. Grappling with her wants and her plans and her principles and her reality. Nate had grabbed her hand then, the warm of his skin pushing through her leather glove. He told her it would be okay, that they'd be okay. And in that moment, she'd let herself believe it.

Now look where they were.

"Where do you want me to drop you off, Paladin?"

Danvers' voice freed Grey from the past and she disorientedly looked below, seeing the edges of Breakheart in the distance. How long had they been travelling? She scanned the area, all seeming quiet. A rarity for Breakheart Banks.

"Knight?" the Paladin prodded.

Right. She was supposed to be the Commonwealth expert. She could laugh at how laudable that was some other time.

"Watch out for the farming settlement near the river. It's overrun with Super Mutants packing some serious firepower." She continued to survey the area. "There's another settlement with greenhouses to the South. Should be safe enough to land there."

"Roger," Danvers acknowledged. "Settlement spotted. Should be on the ground in three minutes. Prepare for landing."

Landing she could prepare for. But everything else? Fuck if she knew. Three years was a long time for evidence to remain intact and undiscovered by wildlife or assailants or scavvers. She wanted to share the Paladin's optimism, believe there was some trace of Artemis out there, but the pessimist in her knew different.

If she really was that pessimistic, would she be out there though, combat rifle in hand, pulse raging in her ears?

What was it Nate said to her while they investigated the Walsh case? "No risk is too great when there are lives on the line."

She'd thought it reckless drivel then. But now? Now there _was_ a life on the line, and for once it wasn't Grey's.

As she jumped from the Vertibird, ground quivering beneath her, she realized that maybe she wasn't half as pessimistic as she thought.


	17. Evidence

Chapter 17  
Evidence

Grey barely had her feet on the ground before the familiar pumping of a shotgun had her looking down her rifle's sights.

An elderly man approached, shotgun held firm in dirt-stained hands. Fierce yet faded eyes stared her down, his dark, withered face drawn into a sneer. He positioned himself between Grey and the greenhouse, fifty feet separating them.

There was no fear on his face. Grey would have been impressed if his actions didn't reek of stupidity.

"I'll give you five seconds to get off my land," he barked.

It was a ballsy opening line noting the Vertibird still circling above.

" _Five_ ," he yelled, clearly uninterested in giving them time to respond. " _Four._ _Three_ —"

Grey thought it amusing until she heard the click of the Paladin's safety behind her.

"— _two_ —"

She saw the woman then, head darting from the greenhouse, eyes widening and gardening spade tumbling toward the ground. She leapt toward the man, hands reaching for him, tanned features wrought with terror.

Grey immediately stepped in front of Danse and raised her hands.

"— _one_!"

The shotgun fired.

The twisted birch to their left exploded, bark and pellets spewing from the weathered wood. Dogmeat shook his head as splinters flecked his coat.

Grey felt Dense at her back, the muzzle of his rifle bobbing against her spine. He re-engaged his safety.

The elderly man lowered his shotgun, but just slightly. A bemused look overtook his sneer. He'd made his point after all: that he wasn't to be jerked around, by raiders, by Super Mutants, or by them. It didn't last though.

The woman smacked him upside the head and began cursing him out, arms gesticulating and eyes wild.

Grey smirked beneath her helmet and activated her external comm. As much as she enjoyed a show, she had bigger fish to fry.

"Hey, lovebirds. Let's make a deal."

—

"A deal?"

Mitchell sat back in her chair, hands tightly folded in her lap. Grey could see the skin whiten as her nails pressed against knuckle.

"Deal, bargain, arrangement, whatever. It's all just semantics."

Mitchell furrowed her brow. "I'm assuming from your inflection that that was a joke."

Grey smirked, adjusting her weight on Mitchell's desk. "How astute of you."

Mitchell maintained eye contact, face disapproving. "I don't do 'deals', Lieutenant. From what I hear, that's your speciality, not mine."

So Mitchell did have a sense of humour. Imagine that.

Grey continued to smirk. "You know, you may really want to add a few personal touches to this office. Some photos, a rug. You know, something to give it a little _personality_."

Mitchell's expression didn't falter but her hands did loosen, ever so slightly.

"Fine, whatever gets you off my desk and out of my office. What sort of deal are you proposing?"

"Oh, the type where you actually give me the witness statements and canvassing reports relevant to my goddamn witness, and, in return, I don't tattle to the head teacher about his star pupil not sharing."

Mitchell's furrow deepened. "I gave you all the files, Lieutenant."

"No, you gave me the files relevant to the immediate aftermath of the attempted murder. What I'm looking for are the statements attached to Sergeant Anders' testimony. Anything regarding the alleged incident three days before the offence. _Those_ files."

Grey had cycled through a series of emotions after Anders told her about what he'd witnessed. When it was all said and done, it was the irritation that stuck, and it was all directed at Mitchell. From her dinner discussion with Anders a week prior, Grey had assumed him witnessing something was just a ploy to inject himself into the investigation. But no, the damned fool actually did witness something. The same something that Cantrell had told her to get straight and usable for trial.

Grey had practically memorized the James case file she'd read it so many times, but there had never been any trace of Anders' witness testimony, let alone any investigation into or follow-up on his claims. Occam's razor would dictate that the likely answer was that Mitchell simply forgot to include it in Grey's file copy. Except Mitchell forgot nothing. The woman was too thorough for such a colossal oversight. No, Grey was convinced there was something else going on and she wasn't interested in playing fifty questions with the world's most repressed pencil pusher.

Mitchell robotically pushed her chair back from her desk, rose to her feet, and pivoted towards her file cabinet. With striking accuracy, she retrieved a thin letter-sized folder. She handed it to Grey.

It held a single page transcript. Mitchell and Anders. Him telling her, in vague, intentionally fragmented terms, that he saw Walsh and James arguing three days before the attack. Except Grey knew this story already, and it wasn't what she was after.

"I think you misunderstood, Lieutenant."

"No," Mitchell said as she sat, hands again folding. "I did not."

Grey stared at her for a minute. "Is this another attempt at humour or—"

"I cannot give you what I do not have, Grey. I'm also none too partial to doing your job for you."

So that's what was going on. Grey looked at the transcript's timestamp. Ten days ago and two weeks after the offence occurred. CID's investigation had concluded by then, so any further investigating was at the judge advocate's expense. And Mitchell? Mitchell didn't leave the office except to sleep and piss. That and she didn't play well with others. Fine for a litigator, but poor for an investigator. At least she recognized her limits, or Cantrell had identified them for her.

Grey's involvement suddenly made a great deal more sense.

"I work better when actually given some semblance of a directive, you know."

"I'll keep that in mind for the future. Now, if we're done?" Mitchell opened one of her file folders, signalling Grey's dismissal.

Grey slid from Mitchell's desk and headed for the door. "Yes, ma'am."

—

Grey leaned back in the rusted patio chair, the tips of her boots dangling inches from the burning campfire. Dogmeat laid beside it, head resting in his paws. The smell of mutfruit was heavy in the air, a confusing mix of earth, blackberry, and grape. The woman—Pat, as she'd introduced her—passed Grey a glass of cold burgundy liquid before taking a seat. Each movement was announced with creaks and squeals, the two-hundred-year-old lawn chairs making their age well known. Grey was pretty sure she and Nate had purchased the same set when they moved to Sanctuary Hills. And to think she'd given the salesman a hard time when he joked the furniture could withstand a nuclear winter.

She sipped the mutfruit juice as she watched the two men below. Danse had shed his power armour and was kneeled down by a water pump, brow furrowed. The shotgun-toting farmer was trying to explain the problem with the mechanism, hand movements becoming more pronounced with each failed attempt. Danse tightened one of the bolts and water spit from the base. Grey smiled. She almost felt bad about pimping out Danse's mechanical knowledge to get the farmers to play nice. Almost.

"This brings me back," Pat mumbled as she watched the men work. "Baker really hasn't been the same since…" Disquiet crept across her hooded eyes. "Well, it's been a while since we had company."

"Have you been here long?"

Pat gave a faint smile. "When traders ask me that, instinct is to say, 'Nah, only a few years', but then I look in the mirror and get a cold, hard dose of reality."

"Time's funny like that," Grey mused.

"You're damn right. When I was a girl, spent all my time wishing my days away. Couldn't wait until I turned sixteen and Daddy let me leave home. Except sixteen comes and Daddy has no intention of letting me go. 'The Wastes are dangerous, girl, and I'm not letting what happen to your brother happen to you.' Looking back on it, I know he just wanted to protect me, but back then I felt caged. Didn't fancy staying in the same shitty rusted town forever, eating the same swill, fucking the same ugly-ass settlers. Then one day, Poppy walks into town, all honey and sunshine. I'd never seen a girl so beautiful or so brave. Alone, traveling the Wastes, nothing but a pair of denim shorts, a tank-top, and a plasma gun to her name. I'd hide away in the local bar, wanting nothing more than to hear a snippet of her tales as the local men circled her like starving mutts. I was trying to live vicariously and all that shit. But then she plunks down next to me one day, no prior words ever exchanged, and she says, 'I'm leaving town tomorrow and so are you.'"

Pat's expression warms, wrinkles deepening. "I think I fell in love with her that day."

"You took her up on her offer, I imagine."

"I don't think I'd ever thought less about a decision. Packed my bag that night, stole my Daddy's old 9mm, and never looked back. Poppy and I were lovers for a while, but friends for longer. We traveled town to town, had our share of adventures and scares. When we were twenty or twenty-one, got caught by slavers out 'round the Capital Wasteland. Thought we were done for, but then we got talking to some of the other captives and we hatched a plan. Poppy distracted the guard who was sweet on her while two of the guys snuck up on him and grabbed his keys. We stole away before the other slavers noticed, and while some of the captives made their own way, three of them stayed—Mike, Juliette, and Baker.

"We continued our vagabond ways from Pennsylvania through the ruins of New York. We'd just entered the Commonwealth when we realized Juliette was pregnant. And shortly after, Poppy, too. We all made the decision to settle down then, find a place to raise the kids. A safe place. Tried Diamond City first, but some of them upper stand folks thumbed their noses at us. Didn't understand how five people could live together, love together, raise kids together. Then one day Poppy runs home, stomach so large you'd think she was ready to birth a brahmin, and says some trader told her about an abandoned farm up north. We hitched a ride with that trader, found this place in worse shape than it is now—if you can imagine that—but the look on Poppy's face… We knew we were home."

The lawyer in Grey wanted to ask what had happened to Juliette, Poppy and Mike, but the widow in her knew better. She knew what this world did to good people.

"Sounds like you and Baker have a lot of history."

Pat gave a laugh. "Yes and no. Baker, he always fancied Poppy, as did I. They had a few kids together, and Mike and I ended up with a set of twins—still can't remember how that happened—but Baker and I were always a bit distant. We got along, mind you, but no kids or anything. Not that that actually mattered. The kids—seven of them when it was all said and done—thought of us all as their parents. Did get mighty confusing when one of them called out 'Mom' though."

Pat took a swig of her juice and offered Grey a refill, which she politely refused. It was a distraction for what was to come. But Pat had started her story now, and Grey knew that once the floodgates opened, they were often hard to close.

"We had many good years together, the five of us. Raised most of the kids, saw them off to build their own lives, but then the tragedies hit. It was Juliette first. She left one day, headed into Malden to trade some goods back when there were merchants to trade with. And she simply never returned. We went out looking, night after night. Asked every trader or scavver who passed by the farm. But she was gone. Mike was next. Yao guai and its cubs wandered into the greenhouse, ate our brahmin. Mike goes out there with his rifle, shoots a cub and gets mauled by mom." She shook her head. "Fucking moron."

"I'm sorry for your loss," Grey said automatically, but Pat waved her off.

"Too many years ago to still sting, girl. But thanks. Honestly, it tore Poppy up worse than it did Baker and I. Not that we were happy about the loss. We loved him, that fucking ass. But Poppy didn't quite recover after that. After thirty years together, Poppy had become attached. For all her independence and fearlessness in her youth, she'd grown to rely on us, too much at times. With Mike and Juliette gone… well, she started to lose her spark. She wasted away day by day. Traveling doctor couldn't find a cause; no disease or condition he'd ever seen before. She'd just… lost her will to live, I guess. A year later, we buried her out back, right beside Mike. Baker and I thought about leaving then. Gave Diamond City another long, hard look. But…"

 _But we couldn't leave._ It was a sentiment Grey couldn't understand. Her mother had barely been in the ground two weeks before her father moved them to New York City. Jasper had accused their father of running away, but Grey understood. There was nothing for them there anymore. Nothing but painful reminders. Grey had felt the same pangs of unease as she'd lingered around Sanctuary, Preston determined to draft her into his little colonial reenactment squad. She'd needed to get out of there. Every inch of the place reminded her of what she'd lost—what was stolen. So like her father before her, she ran.

"What did make you stay?"

Pat shrugged. "First it was the kids. What if they come back looking for us? What if they want to lay down roots here too someday? Then it was the cost. The effort. Then we had a good harvest. Couldn't leave caps in the ground to rot. We always found an excuse. But I don't know. Baker and I had built a life here, and even without the others, we still had what we'd all built. And even as it rusts around us, we still have our work, and we have each other. Plus the kids do visit every year or so, so that keeps us on our toes."

Would Shaun have kept her in Sanctuary if he hadn't been stolen? Grey quickly banished the thought.

She instead fixed her sights back on the men, Baker seeming to grow inpatient, his body language stiff, lips pressed thin. Danse continued to work with quiet dedication though, sweat beading across his brow but hands unrelenting. He was a calming force on Baker she realized, keeping him focused, temper contained.

Pat had realized this, too, a smile returning to her face. "Nice to see him playing nice with others."

"Is that a novelty?" Grey asked with a laugh.

"Sometimes."

"So Baker played nice with the Brotherhood soldiers three years ago?"

Pat's attention snapped to Grey, smile torn from her face. "Excuse me?"

Grey gingerly took another sip of her drink. "Baker isn't an idiot. Surviving this long in the Wastes more than confirmed that. He's a bit hotheaded, sure, but he wouldn't train his rifle on two heavily armed individuals without knowing we weren't innately hostile. So he knew we were Brotherhood and he knew what that meant. Combine that with the fact that the Brotherhood only arrived in the Commonwealth a few days ago and their patrols haven't worked this far north yet…" She picked an uncrushed mutfruit seed from her drink and threw it in the fire.

Pat frowned. "So what's your point?"

Grey gave a half-hearted shrug. "No point, per se. I'm just here for information, namely anything you can tell me about the soldiers that passed through here three years back."

Pat wasn't so easily soothed, but she did move off the edge of her seat. Grey wasn't surprised to see the woman's fingertips graze the pipe rifle propped against the side of her chair. If she was in Pat's position, she'd probably do the same thing.

"We're just looking for answers, Pat. Tell me what you know and we'll be out of your hair."

Pat swung her hand up into her lap. The rifle remained on the ground.

"They were friendly enough for metal giants, I guess. Hadn't seen a suit of power armour since I was a fresh-faced girl, and suddenly there was half a dozen polished suits walking up to my front door. Traded some caps and ammo for food and purified water. One of them chatted to Baker briefly. Nothing of substance. And then they left."

"Did they mention where they were headed next? Maybe a landmark or rendezvous point?"

She shook her head. "They were pretty tight lipped, but I can tell you they headed south, down the road," she said, hiking her thumb over her shoulder, "and towards the roundabout."

Well, it was something at least. Grey began to stand.

Pat stuck out a hand. "I wasn't finished. Few hours later, as the sun starts to set, Baker runs into the house, grabbing his rifle. Says he can hear gunfire in the distance. First thought is raiders—it's always goddamn raiders—so we grab our guns and get stationed by the greenhouse. But the sound doesn't get any closer. If anything, it starts moving away, farther south. And then there's this silence. Baker then gives a shrug and starts to pack up, but suddenly the ground shudders like a pack of angry behemoths were racing towards us. Over the top of the roof I saw this flash of orange and smoke just billowing up. Biggest explosion I'd ever seen. And then it was over. Just quiet."

"Did you investigate or—"

"Fuck no," Pat all but spat. "Too close for comfort, but too far for us to see or care to see what happened. Though if you want my humble assessment, it was nothing good."

Grey asked a few more questions, if Pat had seen anyone else in the area, if she knew what type of explosive it may have been, how far she reckoned the explosion was from Greentop Nursery, but she didn't get very far. They mindlessly chatted for a bit after that, waiting for the men to finish up, but the conversation was terse. Grey had ruined any goodwill with Pat by following a heartfelt confession with an interrogation. That and what she had learned had her retreating into her own head, mulling over the few scant facts she did have and hypothesizing Artemis's likely fate.

As the water began to flow from the pump, Danse pushed himself to his feet, knees tender and skin slightly burnt. Grey strode towards him, combat rifle in hand and Dogmeat at her heels.

"We have a lead. Let's suit up and go."

He ran the back of his hand across his sweat-stained brow and smiled. "Outstanding."


	18. Ambushed

CHAPTER 18  
Ambushed

Grey updated Danse as they left Greentop Nursery. He took the information in stride, almost as if he'd expected as much. She wondered how much of that was Wasteland pragmatism and how much was a finely crafted commanding officer facade.

Nate had had that facade. Always a smile, a joke, stern reassurance, even as the walls caved in around them. People instinctively looked to their leaders for signs of danger or alarm. And leaders, if they were effective, instinctively learned to hide their fears and the gravity of the situation from their men. It ensured perseverance, even when the odds were stacked against them. The Paladin didn't need to protect her though; she knew better than most how to cope with disappointment.

Danse had given her a list of frequencies to monitor, everything from emergency Brotherhood bands to distress beacons. Her Pip-Boy churned through the stations on a loop, each feeding nothing but static back over her internal comm.

The pavement was uneven underfoot, cracked and dried and collapsing from beneath. Grey had grown more used to it over the past couple of months, but in her first two weeks out of the Vault she'd spent more time on her knees and ass than she'd ever be willing to admit. As she carefully maneuvered another pothole, she glanced up and ground to a halt. Danse's arm was extended, preventing their advancement. Grey immediately scanned the terrain, quickly spotting Dogmeat ahead, hackles raised and ears flattened to his skull.

She clicked off her safety.

The roundabout loomed in the distance. Burnt and gnarled bushes sprouted from the island, the hallowed remnants of a maple erupting from the centre. The rusted shell of a bus rested to the right. Everything was quiet. Only the glint of late-morning light reflected off what remained of the traffic signs. Something had Dogmeat on edge though and they'd both be fools to ignore the instincts of a Wasteland mutt.

Danse signalled for her to go to the right before raising his rifle, the gentle hum of its fusion cell cutting through the stillness.

She took an uneasy step forward, each movement a thundering cry. It was chilling, the Wasteland silence. She'd never realized how noisy pre-war life had been until she'd walked through the ruins of Boston on her way to Fenway Park. Every sound had reverberated, crawling up her spine and sending adrenaline through her veins. Every shifting steel beam, every gunshot, every breath. She swallowed sharply.

Dogmeat pressed to her side as she veered right of the bus. The frequencies continued to cycle. With each static click, she pressed her teeth tighter.

Dogmeat growled.

Grey's gun instantly swivelled to the bus window. There was something inside. She could see bits of pink and grey over the lip of the warped metal. Whatever it was, it was unmoving.

She stepped toward the open doors.

A gunshot sounded.

Danse pivoted as jaws leapt at him from the bushes. Gnawing fangs scraped along his forearm, slobber flecking his display. Before he could pull free, something else grabbed hold of his leg. Bone grated on steel. He fired blindly, laser hitting the gnarled maple. He kicked out and something yelped. Before he could turn, something else launched itself onto his back, sending him into the tree. Teeth scraped against his helmet seals, sensors flashing red.

He reversed his thrusters, the weight from his back hitting the ground with a fleshy _thwack_. Something new pulled at his rifle, nearly tearing it from his hands. He swivelled, resisting, globs of saliva burning into his visor. More teeth appeared, jutting from a mess of torn flesh and bone. Blackened eyes stared at him. Their bodies were all twisted muscle and patchy fur, jaws snapping and throats growling.

He cleaved the butt of his rifle into the nearest mutt's head, its teeth finally releasing from his leg. The other two howled in response, hackles rising. A spiked collar hung from one's neck, the other adorned in dented metal and crude leather. Not feral strays, but kept dogs. Attack dogs. Which meant their masters weren't far. He felt his pulse quicken.

He fired a warning shot at the mutts, but neither were deterred. His second shot seared off what remained of the collared one's snout. The remaining mutt didn't wait for the third shot, tearing down the road and into the burnt grass.

"We've been ambushed!" Danse shouted over the comm as he ran toward the bus.

Silence answered.

"Knight, I repeat, we're under—"

The words died in his throat as he rounded the fender. Grey stood over a motionless body, its limbs peppered in track marks and face obscured by dirt and tattoos. A pipe rifle was entwined through its fingers. Dogmeat continued to ravage the other raider's neck. Her body was limp, blood splashed across her leathers and seeping through the Shepherd's teeth.

"That's enough." Grey's words were barely a breath, but Dogmeat promptly unlatched his jaws and trotted to her side. She stroked his head with her armour-clad fingers, his tail wagging contently.

"Not much of an ambush," Danse said.

"Not much of a challenge either. If only all raiders were such light sleep—" Grey turned sharply, facing southwest. "Do you hear…"

She bolted before finishing her sentence. Danse blindly followed.

They raced down the western road, Malden erupting in the distance. The Med-Tek building got closer and closer and Danse felt his gut tighten, but then Grey veered right, into the brush. Her steps slowed, armour twisting side to side. Scanning, he realized. But for what?

The distress beacon pulsed in Grey's ear, signal improving with each step. It led them into a blasted out forest, a maze of scorched earth and knotted bark. Branches snapped underfoot like dry plastic. She bit the inside of her cheek. Something else snapped beneath her foot then. Not wood though. Something denser, something…

She peered down at the broken femur beneath her weight. Scraps of faded green fatigues hung from the remains, skull partially crushed and phalanges dug into the blackened soil. She stepped back, her power armour stabilizing. There were bodies everywhere, skeletons long picked clean, forgotten in what remained of Malden's outskirts. Army men and women, blasted apart. But these weren't recent dead. Likely victims of the nuclear strike or whatever came after. Dead for decades if not centuries.

The distress beacon was strong there though, loud and rapid in her ear. So if it wasn't the skeletons then…

Danse saw the bones first and the juts of brickwork second. Not much remained of the building in the distance, just scabs of foundation and plinth haphazardly enclosed by peeling drywall. Earth-coloured ivy snaked its way through the ruins, like it was trying to reclaim what little remained. This wasn't old-world devastation though. It was fresh, relatively speaking.

Grey tentatively stepped forward, but a gentle hand held her back.

"Hold on," Danse said lightly, releasing her shoulder. "Let's assess the site."

Grey had barely crossed the brick threshold before her Geiger counter started to click. Her foot slipped and she jerked back, peering below. Her stomach churned. She stood in a miniature crater, floor decimated and power armour husks melted into the concrete. A gaunt, grey face peered from the wreckage, skin sunken and peeling like paper. His dogtags had melted into what remained of his chest plate.

Danse approached from behind, helmet scanning. "An explosion tore this building apart. Some kind of high yield detonation. Look at this blast crater!"

Grey pressed her tongue to the top of her mouth, pushing down her disgust. Honestly, she wished she hadn't looked. She had never been what one would have described as squeamish. She didn't have a problem with blood or needles, had seen more than her fair share of twisted and graphic photo evidence. Limbs blown off from IEDs, a man's head cleaved through with a fire axe, bodies so peppered with 5mm rounds that there wasn't enough left to make a positive ID. But it was the Wasteland corpses that turned her stomach. They weren't… right, if that made sense. It probably had something to do with the aftereffects of the nuclear devastation. There likely wasn't enough bacteria and microorganisms left in the soil. Not enough decomposers. So corpses remained for months and years, tissue shrivelling and mummifying instead of bloating and rotting. Wasteland creatures would pick at the remains, tear off the meat and fat while it was still moist. But after a while, not even scavengers could be bothered.

 _No wonder produce was such a nightmare to grow_ , Grey mused. Wastelanders couldn't even use the dead for fertilizer.

"Over here," Danse called, drawing her from her thoughts.

He was kneeled next to a suit of fused T-60 power armour, the frame abandoned, no corpse inside.

"This is Brotherhood power armour," he said, voice quieting. "Look, you can still see the insignia. The damage, it's… _deliberate_." He pushed against the frame, shifting it only slightly but enough to see the melted remnants of the core casing. "They set the fusion cores in their armour to overload. That's what caused the blast." He shook his head. "Why?"

There was a quiet weight to his tone, something mournful. Grey stepped back instinctively. She wasn't sure why. Not wanting to pry? Interfere? She didn't know who these people were, felt no closeness to them. But Danse would, regardless if he knew them or not. That was how the military worked, after all. "Camaraderie", plastered all over the recruitment fliers. A nice lie, one that made people feel connected and valued. Made them feel like their sacrifices and trauma mattered. That it was worth it. She shook her head.

The distress beacon continued to broadcast at an alarming rate, the vibration of it practically dislodging her fillings. She followed the sound until it nearly flatlined, finding a cereal-box-sized transmitter posed next to another burnt-out power armour frame. Another mummified corpse. Tufts of platinum hair contrasted against dark, shrivelled skin. His eyelids were closed and sunken.

Dogmeat butted his nose against the corpse's hand, a yellowed holotape slipping to the floor. Grey released the seals on her forearm plate, gaining access to her Pip-Boy, before retrieving the tape. She played it over the external comm, the sounds of gunfire droning out her clicking Geiger.

There had been an ambush, soldiers outnumbered, power cores failing. Artemis had been pursued. Hunted. They didn't elaborate why. For their armour or supplies perhaps? Orders were given to scuttle the armour. Someone named Varham fell. Another blast. They were told to retreat, to the old military base. A callsign was given. Then nothing. Just static.

Grey ejected the tape.

Danse kneeled before the corpse, expression forlorn. "What a choice. With no armour and no supplies, their chances of survival were low. But that was the right decision. Technology must be protected, no matter the cost." He pulled Varham's tags from his remains.

"That's one hell of a cost," Grey murmured as she injected a small vile of RadAway into her arm. She'd be damned if she ever sacrificed her life for some sprockets and wires. But she wasn't about to tell Danse that. She knew when not to add insult in injury.

They did another sweep of the crater, pocketing the distress pulser and collecting dogtags. There were three empty power armour frames. Three survivors then, providing they had cleared the blast radius in time. After a quick search of the grounds, she decided they must have. All the other remains were too desiccated and decayed to have died within the last decade. So where did the survivors go?

"The recon team made it this far," Danse said, as if reading her mind. "From this position, we could assume they were headed west, toward Malden, but it is possible their pursuers forced them off course. If we can locate the nearest military base—"

"Way ahead of you." Grey activated her onboard map, scanning the rendering and mentally comparing it with her pre-war knowledge. Fort Hagen and Fort Strong were the only two Army bases in the Commonwealth, both of which she'd recently visited and both of which bore no traces of a Brotherhood recon team. There had been a small Air Force contingent at Satellite Station Olivia, but that was miles north. Artemis wouldn't have been traveling south and near Malden if Olivia was their intended destination. That and the raiders there had been dug in too deep to have only acquired the base a few years ago. Navy then? No, their shipyard had been reduced to a crater either during or after the war, and with the USS Constitution auspiciously sticking out of Weatherby Savings & Loan, Grey was keen to keep clear.

There was something she was missing though. That tip-of-the-tongue sensation. Was it a place she'd been? A location she'd discussed? A passing comment by a judge advocate? She closed her eyes, trying to conjure the past. She couldn't help but think there was something ironic about that.

She found herself in her old JAG Corps office. Nate was perched on the corner of her desk in his Army Greens, blue eyes practically sparkling with mischief. He'd been trying to goad her into something, that mix of flirtatious teasing and light humour. Muffled Christmas carols filled the space, another charity or church or children's choir spreading their seasonal propaganda in the main concourse two floors below. Her jaw tightening with the memory, some bits so faded but the sounds so sharp. She remembered her annoyance, her need to keep a neutral face.

It was December 2075. She and Nate had been reviewing their findings, which were, at that juncture, precious little. She'd been picking the Sergeant's brain for over an hour. Anything he could tell her about his old squad, any detail he may have missed. The difficulty was that they didn't quite know what they were looking for. Two soldiers, once the best of friends, were now cast as perpetrator and victim in some bizarre whodunit. A peculiar plot further complicated by falsified records, hinting that something larger was at play, something that went all the way to the top. Except Nate was adamant the squad hadn't been involved in anything requiring covert status or a cover up.

Grey had massaged her nose for the millionth time that day. They needed access to Walsh. Needed to speak to him. Any official questioning would be monitored though, and she couldn't tip anyone off that she was doing more than witness prep and light touch investigation. It was also likely Cantrell had a tail on Walsh in the city or at least a car on his house, so contacting him outside of the office was just as dangerous.

"You said Walsh had family in the Commonwealth. Who exactly?"

"Aunt and Uncle, a few kid cousins, half-sister—well, sometimes her."

Grey had straightened. "Why 'sometimes'?"

"She's with the National Guard."

He'd said that like it was explanation enough.

"And?" Grey'd prompted.

"Right. You're technically a civilian. How do I explained… Before this war, Walsh and the guys always used to tease her about sitting around on the sidelines, and she'd joke that that was where she liked to be. But now…" He shrugged. "I think she's spent more time on the front lines than Walsh and I combined."

"So, on the slim chance she is in town and not getting her ass blown off in Alaska, where exactly would I find her?"

His lips had curled into a smile. "I'll drive."

Grey opened her eyes, map overlay bright across her visor. She zoomed in on the area then traced the path back to Malden. Her eyes lingered on their current location.

"So you were forced off course," she mumbled.

"Knight?"

"I know where they went," she said.

"Then we move out."

As they retraced their steps to the main road, Dogmeat trotting alongside, Grey could still feel the past lick at the corners of her mind. Images of Nate's old Corvega. Them driving into Charlestown, across the northeastern bridge. The feel of the leather beneath her bare legs. His wistful smile as Ella Fitzgerald played over the radio.

Hopefully, she'd have more luck this time than she did in 2075. And considering how that visit went—well, the bar had been set pretty damn low.


	19. Here They Lay

CHAPTER 19  
Here They Lay

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me, Sergeant," the Captain snapped. "Active deployments are classified information and yet you—"

Sergeant Anders' face hardened. "I'm not asking you to break confidentiality, Captain, just for you to—"

Grey sighed and pushed her hands deeper into her pockets, the December cold seeping in through her overcoat. She'd been standing outside the National Guard Recruitment Office for over ten minutes now, watching Sergeant Anders spectacularly fail at ascertaining Lydia Walsh's whereabouts.

She and the Sergeant had thought it best if he made the initial approach, use the guise of a fellow serviceman checking in on an old friend between tours. Staff were more likely to open up to a soldier than a judge advocate, or so they'd assumed. Clearly this Captain had an axe to grind over something, and the Sergeant had the misfortune of fumbling straight into whatever it was.

Grey was half tempted to walk over and rescue him, but she wasn't too keen on having a Captain aware that JAG Corps was sniffing around the National Guard. She also didn't want word of her activities getting back to Cantrell, however unlikely that was.

After the Captain pulled a, "Look, you may think you have authority here but let me tell you" out of his arsenal, Grey decided Plan A was a bust. Time for her to improv a Plan B.

She pushed off the Sergeant's Corvega and crossed the parking lot, careful to stay out of the Captain's line of sight. She ducked behind a parked IVF and looped around the back of the barracks. The hum of traffic abruptly faded, quickly replaced by boot slaps, grunts, and whistles. She followed the sounds, rounding an empty security station and climbing a short concrete staircase to the training yard above. Roughly a half-dozen recruits worked their way through an obstacle course of razor wire, metal tubes, and climbing frames. She could see the patches of sweat seeping through their clothes, laboured breaths condensing in the cold. The drill sergeant continued to up the pace, showing indifference even as one man's cough began to mimic that of a sick dog.

She spied a woman on the sidelines in grey Army sweats, tearing off muddied kneepads and massaging her muscles. The woman made the slightest of eye rolls as the drill sergeant reminded them they'd be thanking him the next time they had to hump ninety pounds of equipment down the Alaskan coastline with red coats riding their asses so hard they'd have saddle burn.

"He's a bit intense," Grey commented as she approached.

The woman looked up passively then did a double take before snapping to attention and giving a solute. "Ma'am!"

Grey nodded and motioned for her to sit. The woman did so stiffly, nearly tripping in her pads. Her cheeks burned red as she continued to steal nervous glances at the golden JAG Corps insignia pinned to Grey's collar.

Army training liked to impart the notion that any infraction would get your ass instantly court martialed and your career ended. It was a fiction, of course. Most infractions were either ignored or met with a stern brow and forceful, "Don't do it again". But that wasn't the story the recruits were told. No, the goal was deterrence and fear, and facts often detracted from that outcome, so why include them? The unfortunate upshot of this was that judge advocates were often treated, at best, with blatant suspicion and apprehension. Grey counted herself lucky the woman was only giving her anxious looks. Of the reactions she'd had when approaching a soldier in her dress blues, that was pretty damn tame.

"May I ask your name, soldier?"

"McLeod, ma'am. Private Teri McLeod."

McLeod's jaw was so tight, Grey was afraid her teeth might shatter.

"Really, Private," Grey said with a smile. "I'm not here in any official capacity. A friend of mine had some business to attend to inside and I decided to stretch my legs. Plus his car smells like wet dog." She made a face to sell the lie. Well, partial lie. There was the faintest whiff of dog in Sergeant Anders' car.

McLeod's expression eased slightly, reason urging her toward caution but intuition telling her a judge advocate wouldn't be this friendly if they were about to fuck up her afternoon. Grey flashed another smile, giving intuition a nudge in the desired direction.

The drill sergeant upped the pace again, one of the recruits now coughing so loudly Grey was all but certain the next thing to leave his mouth would be bits of lung. McLeod knit her brow, nose crinkling.

"He always this dogmatic?" Grey asked.

"Worse, actually. If you can believe it."

"And here I thought I had it bad when my training CO had us up and running laps before the sun rose."

"Oh, he does that, too." McLeod peeled off another muddy pad.

Grey took a seat beside her, crossing her legs to stave off the cold.

They sat in silence for a bit, Grey pretending to watch the recruits, McLeod working her fingers into her calf. Grey made a few absent comments, nothing too eager, just enough smalltalk to convince MacLeod she was indeed harmless. Then there was the friendly chitchat, musings on the weather and its potential impact on deployment schedules. Scheduling always got messy closer to the holidays, people vying for leave and so few getting it. Mix that with a random blizzard and it often spelled discontent. Grey had always preferred to work through the holidays, but she was cognizant that the average American saw that as a travesty. MacLeod didn't seem too fussed about the schedule, however. And whilst Grey would have liked to think she'd found a like-minded individual, she knew another outcome was much more likely.

"You're recently back from tour?"

MacLeod shifted awkwardly. "That obvious, huh?"

Grey offered a half smile. "I get it. Sometime, after what we've seen, real life doesn't quite feel real anymore."

It was a bullshit line, of course. Grey had never been stationed outside of the Commonwealth, much less outside the country, but she'd heard enough soldiers say it to know it held some weight.

MacLeod sighed. "It's the stillness, honestly. My father, he just sits there, reading his newspaper, coffee growing cold. So damn still. Like everything's okay and—" She shook her head. "At least there's life here at the barracks. Motion. Structure."

"Familiarity."

She nodded. "Yeah, exactly."

"Lydia said the same thing to me once, after her first deployment." Grey uttered the lie so casually she nearly impressed herself.

She leaned back on the bench, choosing her next words oh so carefully.

"You may know her, actually. Private Lydia Walsh?"

MacLeod paled, fumbling one of her pads.

Grey took that as a yes. A beautiful, wonderful _yes_.

She ignored the grin pulling at her mouth. It was time to get to work.

—

Sergeant Anders leaned against the back of his Corvega, teeth cradling a fresh cigarette. Waiting. He was always waiting where Lieutenant Grey was concerned. He couldn't help but wonder if she preferred it that way, keeping him on edge, hanging on her every word.

His hands absently played with his lighter. Some Chinese knock-off, bastardized English carved into the tarnished metal. He'd pulled it from a combatant's hand after he'd sunk a combat knife into his femoral artery, thinking the man was about to pull a grenade out of his coat. But no, it was a fucking lighter. Anders shook his head.

A hand snatched the cigarette from his mouth. He turned abruptly as Grey leaned towards him, black hair windswept and his cigarette perched between her pale lips. He lit the tip.

She stepped back and inhaled deeply, her expression distant and unreadable. She blew a line of smoke over his shoulder before handing it back.

"She's dead."

That was it. No explanation. No concern. Just two words, quick and dry. It might as well have been her coffee order.

The filter paper flirted with his lips, brain still processing.

"How did you—"

"Her unit was decimated by a stealth operative when they camped overnight. They sent her remains home seven weeks ago. Funeral was held on the thirtieth of October."

Anders stood silent, cigarette continuing to burn. Why hadn't he known? Why didn't Walsh tell him, invite him to the wake? He'd thought they were closer than that. They _had_ been closer than that. Him, Walsh, and Lydia. How she'd always watch and smile as the boys carried on, Specialist Blake and her sharing a beer and jeering as Walsh and James roughhoused. So why hadn't he—

"Don't."

He furrowed his brow at the Lieutenant. "Excuse me?"

"Don't," Grey repeated, voice stern. "Whatever mental gymnastics you want to put yourself through right now to make her death somehow your fault? It discredits you and it discredits her. So you file it and you move on. Process it later for all I care, but don't do it on my time."

Heat crawled up his neck. He wanted to argue with her, wanted to turn and shout and tell her this ice-queen routine wasn't cutting it for him anymore. But…

He inhaled, the nicotine like tendrils soothing his nerves.

"You're right."

She looked surprised by that, like she hadn't quite expected him to agree with her. Her expression softened and she moved alongside him, leg brushing his as she leaned against the car. He passed her the cigarette and she took another drag before speaking.

"I'm not unsympathetic, it's just…" She exhaled, as if trying to find the words. "I don't presume to understand the bonds you form with your fellow servicemen. But I do understand loyalties, and I know what it's like to feel like you've failed everyone around you and everyone you thought you were responsible for."

His gaze slid to her face, to the intensity in her brow, the glimpses of something dark hidden beneath.

He knew nothing about her, he realized. Nothing but the scuttlebutt, and the more time he spent with her, the more he believed it all to be false.

Anders lightly ran his fingers down her temple, pushing her hair back from her face. He wanted to peel back the falseness and the unknown around her, see what was beneath. See how her mind really worked, what she actually felt. But she wouldn't allow that. She told him this subtly, not in words or pushes or refusals, but merely with her eyes. They were watching him intently, pupils like pinpricks.

He pulled his hand back and pushed it into his pocket.

He wasn't sure how long they sat in the cold, the silence thick and palpable. They'd acted out this scene far too many times over the past three weeks. Him asking, "What next?" and her furrowing her brow before eventually posing an innocuous question that led them on some maddening scavenger hunt. Yet with every lead, every discovery, he felt further removed from his original query. Faked records, false commendations, now Lydia.

The timing couldn't be a coincidence. Lydia dies and days later, Walsh supposedly puts a bullet in James' head? What Anders couldn't fathom was the _why_. Did Walsh attack James out of grief maybe? But even if he did, why James of all people? Why not Lydia's CO or some survivor from that night? What would be the motive? James and Lydia had never been close, and he couldn't see how James would be involved in her squad's demise. From what he'd gathered, James had been stationed on the East Coast for the past year and hadn't been near Alaska since their squad was decommissioned in 2074. Unless Logistics was involved somehow…?

"We're out of options."

Her words pressed down on him like a weight.

He watched her clench and unclench her jaw. Every bit of her body language told him she didn't like what she had in mind. She'd probably spent the last fifteen minutes trying to mentally talk herself out of it with little success.

"What are you thinking?" he asked.

"That we need to speak to Walsh."

"But you said—"

"I know what I said, Sergeant." She took a deep breath, voice quieting. "I know. So trust me when I say I'm not making this call lightly."

"What's the plan then?"

"Don't have one, not yet at least." She ran a hand through her hair, revealing flecks of silver at the root. "Give me twenty-four hours. Can't promise I'll have a good plan, but…" She shrugged, pulling her coat closer around her.

 _But trust me._ That was the connotation, the unspoken expectation. Just trust her, follow her down the rabbit hole. Continue to push reason and reservation away.

Even as they drove back to Boston, he couldn't help but continue to study her. Watch her as she gazed out the window, tension ebbing and flowing through her face as she thought.

It was silly, but all he could think about was her. Not Lydia's death, not James' lying still in his hospital bed, face black and blue, wrapped in bandages and gauze. Just Grey. About her pull on him. Her pull on everyone. But most importantly, who had she'd failed?

And who had she lost?


End file.
